Bonding Over Bathroom Fixtures

When my nephew was four he was at the grocery store with my sister and my two year old niece who had finally started using the toilet.  While standing in the line with a loaded cart, Nathanael announced to everyone, “Now my whole family wears underwear!”  It was pretty cute.

I have beautiful shower fixtures now.  My dad installed them for me.  I asked him to do it a couple of years ago when I bought the fixtures, but he told me to hire a plumber.  He didn’t think he could do it.  Then the other day I was showing him the list of stuff I still need to do on my house before selling it.  I was showing it to him to demonstrate just how little is left on a house I’ve basically gutted and remodeled all by myself.  The only project I hired someone for was rewiring the thing and installing a new electric box (another friend who did an amazing job and to whom I still owe money when this box sells).  My dad has helped me on a few projects since he’s a retired contractor and carpenter.  I think he’s proud his daughter has picked up his skills and remodeled the entire kitchen, removed a wall, built a wall, built a ginormous walk-in closet, moved a door, retiled the bathroom, built two sets of built-in bookshelves, painted the entire thing inside various colors, replaced molding, rebuilt window frames, replaced light fixtures, took a jungle out of the front yard, built a rock wall, and installed a yard, as well as countless landscaping projects.  When I ask him how to do something, he seems happy I ask his advice and shows me what to do, sometimes offering to help.  I was so glad he offered to put in the bathtub fixture for me because I had no idea how I was going to pay a plumber.  After he did it and it took five hours because the new fixture was a different shape than the old one and the whole thing had to be installed behind two solar water heater pipes, I was even more glad.  One plumber I had called estimated the job would take 45 minutes to complete.  He had not looked at it.  I have no doubt when he got here and discovered the tile had to be cut and there were pipes to work around, he would not have been so optimistic and it would have cost a hell of a lot more than the $120 he quoted.

Anyway, my dad did this for me and I’m grateful.  I know he’s sad I’m selling the place.  We haven’t told my mom yet.  She’d freak and we all know it.  So continuing the tradition of secrets, none of us tell.  But it’s funny, it’s not like alcoholic secrets where things are obvious yet everyone denies them.  It’s more like we all know my mom freaks about the most mundane of events and won’t sleep for a month and will stomp around the house and make everyone around her miserable, so to avoid the hassle none of us will mention it.  If the information is dropped, well, we’ll spin it to create the best story for her so hopefully she won’t lose any sleep and start to freak out.  In my mind, that’s not really living with secrets.  Rather it’s more like living without a hassle.

Anyway, I’m glad my dad did this for me.  It looks amazing.  Last night I came home from a friend’s party and even though it was midnight, I had to take a shower in it.  It was so fantastic to be able to adjust the heat without pliers, something we’ve done for four years now.  Thanks, Dad.

Pleas of Please

Get me out of here.  Please.  Just take me as far away as possible, preferably to the other side of the planet.  Portland hates me and I’m beginning to really hate Portland.  At least while I thought I loved Portland it could take its passive aggressive actions against me and I wasn’t aware what was going on.  Now that our hostility is in the open, I’m afraid it might become even more bitter and hateful towards me, and I’m frightened.  I have to leave here.  I have to leave here as soon as I possibly can.  This is my lament carved into internet space.  These are the words I use to beg and plead for an allowance to pack my things and leave without further incident.  Please.  I wonder if there is some link in the word origin between please and pleas.  There must be.  Pleas of please, they are so similar.  One word.  One plea.  Get me out of here alive.  Maybe that’s two requests.  Okay, so two pleas.  Get me out of here.  Alive.  Please.  These are my only requests.

I wrote my tags and for them I chose despondence, despair, and desperation.  I need to look up the origin of desp because my pathos and longing exists in all of these desp words.  Okay, so I looked up despondence and it comes from forlorn, which literally means lost.  I looked up despair and it arises from lack of hope.  I looked up desperation and it also arises from lack of hope.  I can see its connection to despair.  Interesting words.  Funny the desp is not a root.

Anyway, I have to leave this place or I will wither.  Actually, I already am.