It was the smell that alarmed me. There's nothing in the world like the smell of Liquid Nails (or whatever the commercial-grade product is called), and it was wafting up from the basement where the two drywallers were busily cutting and drilling and attaching the sheets of boring-gray sheetrock to my precious framework. The smell jumped straight from my nose to my brain and shot me out of my chair like a bolt of lightning. I raced downstairs and caught them in the act, holding the offensive tubes of goop in their hands, while streams of already-dispensed adhesive slowly dripped down the studs I had so carefully cut and assembled.
Anger gritted my teeth. I was prepared to (metaphorically) tear their heads off, but it dawned on me that they were simply doing what they had been trained to do. Perhaps it was the more efficient method; perhaps it made things easier for them -- although I couldn't for the life of me figure out how -- but I simply stated through my locked jaw that I thought I'd made it very clear to their boss that I did not want any glue used on my walls. None. And, I added, get that glue off my wood. Right now.
I was livid, insensible with anger for quite a while afterward, even after sitting upstairs for a while listening to them as they moved on with the project (sans glue). Because I had not noticed the offensive scent until nearly an hour had passed since they had begun work, and as a consequence, the eastern wall of the smaller bedroom had already been completed. With glue between the sheetrock and my precious frames. They had cleaned it off the frames on which no drywall had been yet placed, but those other walls were already done, attached, complete. And now, should I ever need to remove them for the purpose of repairing a section damaged by moisture, mildew, water leaks, or electrical failure, it would be impossible to remove the 8x4 sections I had so carefully designed. And it would be necessary for me to scrape the cured product from the framework I had so carefully constructed, a process which inevitably destroys the wood, such is the grip on the fibers by the chemical compounds of the adhesive.
I had already experienced this when removing sections of the original drywall for the purpose of integrating the new bedroom walls and adding new outlets to the existing circuits. The drywall was damaged beyond re-use; the studs were gouged by my pathetic attempts to remove the quarter-inch beads of congealed glue.
If there is one thing inevitable about a wall, it is the need for eventual repair. Why do they seek to make it so much more difficult than it needs to be?
Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of it, though, is the fact that Dad and I spent so much time working on the basement during his recent visit, getting it ready. We had a great time working together downstairs, but the whole point was to move forward so that this basement could finally be done.
And then the drywall company put us off for nearly two weeks before they could get started. So we've been waiting, and waiting, and waiting ... and then when they finally get started, they do something that I had specifically told the estimater NOT to do.
Arg!
:::
Mom and Dad's visit was a happy surprise in the middle of a very sad time. We hadn't even considered that they might come all the way up to spend a couple days with us because we were already going to be seeing them down in South Bend for the memorial service (and then again in another month at Kel's wedding); but they came up early and spent Thursday and Friday night with us. Dad and I spent all day Friday working on the basement, which was more fun than I can even begin to describe; and then we all drove down to the memorial service, after which they stayed with other relatives down in Bloomington.
Some of my favorite memories of childhood are working with my dad, either on the house or out in the garage, on cars or cabinets, trying to pick up all the secrets of his carpentry magic. The best part of his most recent visit was that we got to spend time doing something that I actually knew how to do. I'm not a carpenter, but I do know my way around a 2x4. And house framing. And electrical. And plumbing. And drywall. And cars. Thanks to my dad.
Just don't ask me to build cabinets.
:::
One of the issues with Deb's "new" car was the exhaust system. The flexible section (about a foot past the end of the exhaust manifold) was rusted and leaking, which caused a bit of noise. Enough noise for some overeager cop to pull her over and give her a stern warning to "get it fixed".
I was annoyed because (1) my car is much louder and no one ever pulled me over; and (2) I'm convinced the cop was picking on her because she was a teenage girl driving by herself and he wanted to be intimidating. Jerk. (That's my protective Dad-mode talking.)
None of my DIY-fixes worked. The flex part was just too flexible and none of the patches or wraps covered it up enough. The best we could do was to reduce it by about 5 dB or so. Pathetic. We finally got tired of putzing around and so I called up my regular muffler guy and he said there was a ten or fifteen minute wait if I brought it in right now ... but I couldn't bring it in right now (due to some other things I was right in the middle of) ... so I said I could bring it in about an hour. Which I did. And in that hour's time, three other big jobs came into the muffler shop, so by the time I showed up, he couldn't fit me in. And I absolutely needed the car fixed right away.
So I drove a few miles to the next muffler place, which just so happens to be situated next to a book store (said store which just happens to be exhibiting one of Mary's art pieces), and there was a very nice man behind the counter who managed to fit me in. Which meant I could go sit over at the bookstore cafe while waiting for it to be finished and ready the book I had brought along (chock full of mystery/detective stories from the 20s, 30s and 40s). But I didn't get a chance to read much because after I'd only been there a few minutes, who should walk in but one of my favorite people, Carolyn Shapin? And she sat at my table and ate her late lunch and we had a marvelous chat about kids and colleges and graduate programs. And then she had to go, and then I read for a little while longer, and then it was time to go pick up the car from the shop.
Funny thing about the exhaust system: apparently the last person who repaired it, took off the catalytic converter and didn't put another one back on. In fact, they just put a straight pipe from the flex to the muffler, not even bothering to hook up the two oxygen sensors. The whole thing was a bit, shall we say, dicey. Naturally, the guy at Midas couldn't just fix the flex and leave it at that, so I authorized him to do the thing right, and he installed the catalytic converter and one of the oxygen sensors (but the other needs to be completely rewired, which takes more $$ than we have available right now). As it was, I was expecting a $200 repair; it actually cost us closer to $500.
Oh, well. At least Deb has a nice, quiet car now!
:::
With all these cars in my driveway (because there's so much basement junk in the garage that I can only fit one car in there), there's quite a bit of car-shuffling that goes on every day so that everyone can get to where they need to go at the appropriate time. Most of the time, I move the cars I don't need right away to the street so those in the family who need to go somewhere can use the driveway. And then I put them all back into the driveway at night because there is no street parking allowed overnight due to the necessity to get the snowplows through.
So the other day I was moving my green Subaru (Serenity II) from the street to the driveway, backing it up so I could line it up with the driveway, when it came to a grinding halt. As though the brakes had suddenly and inexplicably engaged. But I was not pressing the brake, nor was the parking brake on.
Back and forth, back and forth a couple times, but it stayed locked. And then, finally, something snapped, and it moved. Confused, I put it in the driveway and then took a good look at the wheels. Didn't see anything weird until I walked back out to the street. And found part of a brake pad lying there. About a third of one. And it was worn down at an angle, as though the caliper pistons were not pushing the same. As though one of them was perhaps jammed.
So apparently one of the brake pads had been wearing wrong and it suddenly broke off and jammed up the rotor until my back-and-forth motion caused it to dislodge. But which wheel?
Cheryl wasn't home so the garage spot was clear. I drove the car into the garage and jacked up the car and pulled off the left front (driver-side) wheel and - Bingo! There it was, the rest of the broken brake pad, and two misaligned caliper pistons.
Just what I need. A broken car. In a jammed-up garage. While trying to finish a basement. And find a job. And get ready for a trip to Texas. And plan a graduation.
I am so ready for a vacation.
Anger gritted my teeth. I was prepared to (metaphorically) tear their heads off, but it dawned on me that they were simply doing what they had been trained to do. Perhaps it was the more efficient method; perhaps it made things easier for them -- although I couldn't for the life of me figure out how -- but I simply stated through my locked jaw that I thought I'd made it very clear to their boss that I did not want any glue used on my walls. None. And, I added, get that glue off my wood. Right now.
I was livid, insensible with anger for quite a while afterward, even after sitting upstairs for a while listening to them as they moved on with the project (sans glue). Because I had not noticed the offensive scent until nearly an hour had passed since they had begun work, and as a consequence, the eastern wall of the smaller bedroom had already been completed. With glue between the sheetrock and my precious frames. They had cleaned it off the frames on which no drywall had been yet placed, but those other walls were already done, attached, complete. And now, should I ever need to remove them for the purpose of repairing a section damaged by moisture, mildew, water leaks, or electrical failure, it would be impossible to remove the 8x4 sections I had so carefully designed. And it would be necessary for me to scrape the cured product from the framework I had so carefully constructed, a process which inevitably destroys the wood, such is the grip on the fibers by the chemical compounds of the adhesive.
I had already experienced this when removing sections of the original drywall for the purpose of integrating the new bedroom walls and adding new outlets to the existing circuits. The drywall was damaged beyond re-use; the studs were gouged by my pathetic attempts to remove the quarter-inch beads of congealed glue.
If there is one thing inevitable about a wall, it is the need for eventual repair. Why do they seek to make it so much more difficult than it needs to be?
Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of it, though, is the fact that Dad and I spent so much time working on the basement during his recent visit, getting it ready. We had a great time working together downstairs, but the whole point was to move forward so that this basement could finally be done.
And then the drywall company put us off for nearly two weeks before they could get started. So we've been waiting, and waiting, and waiting ... and then when they finally get started, they do something that I had specifically told the estimater NOT to do.
Arg!
:::
Mom and Dad's visit was a happy surprise in the middle of a very sad time. We hadn't even considered that they might come all the way up to spend a couple days with us because we were already going to be seeing them down in South Bend for the memorial service (and then again in another month at Kel's wedding); but they came up early and spent Thursday and Friday night with us. Dad and I spent all day Friday working on the basement, which was more fun than I can even begin to describe; and then we all drove down to the memorial service, after which they stayed with other relatives down in Bloomington.
Some of my favorite memories of childhood are working with my dad, either on the house or out in the garage, on cars or cabinets, trying to pick up all the secrets of his carpentry magic. The best part of his most recent visit was that we got to spend time doing something that I actually knew how to do. I'm not a carpenter, but I do know my way around a 2x4. And house framing. And electrical. And plumbing. And drywall. And cars. Thanks to my dad.
Just don't ask me to build cabinets.
:::
One of the issues with Deb's "new" car was the exhaust system. The flexible section (about a foot past the end of the exhaust manifold) was rusted and leaking, which caused a bit of noise. Enough noise for some overeager cop to pull her over and give her a stern warning to "get it fixed".
I was annoyed because (1) my car is much louder and no one ever pulled me over; and (2) I'm convinced the cop was picking on her because she was a teenage girl driving by herself and he wanted to be intimidating. Jerk. (That's my protective Dad-mode talking.)
None of my DIY-fixes worked. The flex part was just too flexible and none of the patches or wraps covered it up enough. The best we could do was to reduce it by about 5 dB or so. Pathetic. We finally got tired of putzing around and so I called up my regular muffler guy and he said there was a ten or fifteen minute wait if I brought it in right now ... but I couldn't bring it in right now (due to some other things I was right in the middle of) ... so I said I could bring it in about an hour. Which I did. And in that hour's time, three other big jobs came into the muffler shop, so by the time I showed up, he couldn't fit me in. And I absolutely needed the car fixed right away.
So I drove a few miles to the next muffler place, which just so happens to be situated next to a book store (said store which just happens to be exhibiting one of Mary's art pieces), and there was a very nice man behind the counter who managed to fit me in. Which meant I could go sit over at the bookstore cafe while waiting for it to be finished and ready the book I had brought along (chock full of mystery/detective stories from the 20s, 30s and 40s). But I didn't get a chance to read much because after I'd only been there a few minutes, who should walk in but one of my favorite people, Carolyn Shapin? And she sat at my table and ate her late lunch and we had a marvelous chat about kids and colleges and graduate programs. And then she had to go, and then I read for a little while longer, and then it was time to go pick up the car from the shop.
Funny thing about the exhaust system: apparently the last person who repaired it, took off the catalytic converter and didn't put another one back on. In fact, they just put a straight pipe from the flex to the muffler, not even bothering to hook up the two oxygen sensors. The whole thing was a bit, shall we say, dicey. Naturally, the guy at Midas couldn't just fix the flex and leave it at that, so I authorized him to do the thing right, and he installed the catalytic converter and one of the oxygen sensors (but the other needs to be completely rewired, which takes more $$ than we have available right now). As it was, I was expecting a $200 repair; it actually cost us closer to $500.
Oh, well. At least Deb has a nice, quiet car now!
:::
With all these cars in my driveway (because there's so much basement junk in the garage that I can only fit one car in there), there's quite a bit of car-shuffling that goes on every day so that everyone can get to where they need to go at the appropriate time. Most of the time, I move the cars I don't need right away to the street so those in the family who need to go somewhere can use the driveway. And then I put them all back into the driveway at night because there is no street parking allowed overnight due to the necessity to get the snowplows through.
So the other day I was moving my green Subaru (Serenity II) from the street to the driveway, backing it up so I could line it up with the driveway, when it came to a grinding halt. As though the brakes had suddenly and inexplicably engaged. But I was not pressing the brake, nor was the parking brake on.
Back and forth, back and forth a couple times, but it stayed locked. And then, finally, something snapped, and it moved. Confused, I put it in the driveway and then took a good look at the wheels. Didn't see anything weird until I walked back out to the street. And found part of a brake pad lying there. About a third of one. And it was worn down at an angle, as though the caliper pistons were not pushing the same. As though one of them was perhaps jammed.
So apparently one of the brake pads had been wearing wrong and it suddenly broke off and jammed up the rotor until my back-and-forth motion caused it to dislodge. But which wheel?
Cheryl wasn't home so the garage spot was clear. I drove the car into the garage and jacked up the car and pulled off the left front (driver-side) wheel and - Bingo! There it was, the rest of the broken brake pad, and two misaligned caliper pistons.
Just what I need. A broken car. In a jammed-up garage. While trying to finish a basement. And find a job. And get ready for a trip to Texas. And plan a graduation.
I am so ready for a vacation.
1 comment:
We do the shuffle too. Quite an event. Trying to think ahead about who needs to go out first in the morning can be challenging. So far, so good. And today we've got two cars in the shop, one with bad abs/break modules, and the other with the "I may need new tires" wobble in the front end. We had new shocks put in, and a front end alignment, but it still wants to wobble to and fro. And it's ears hang low...
Sure sorry to hear about your troubles with the drywallers. Does anybody listen? And did your estimator really get the message across or did the drywallers say "eh, he'll never figure it out, we'll just do it our way..."? What a mess. And we must think ahead, because you might actually live in that house long enough to retire, and remodel.
Hope your job hunt is going well. That was nice what you said about Bob and Susan. Nice to have had time with them like you did.
Post a Comment