snowblower for sale

If you live in or near Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada, and you need a snowblower ... click here.

If you don't, you STILL deserve to read the most masterful Kijiji sales pitch ever written.

The fact is, in Canada, the further east you go, the funnier you get, and this guy might not be quite as far east as Newfoundland, but he definitely deserves to be on Just for Laughs. Personally, I think Rick Mercer should go and check out his snowblower.

Enjoy.

Do you like shoveling snow? Then stop reading this and go back to your pushups and granola because you are not someone that I want to talk to.

Let’s face it, we live in a place that attracts snow like Magnetic Hill attracts cars, only that ain’t an illusion out there. That’s 12 inches of snow piling up and, oh, what’s that sound? Why it’s the snow plow and it’s here to let you know that it hates you and all the time you spent to shovel your driveway. Did you want to get out of your house today? Were you expecting to get to work on time? Or even this week? You gave it your best shot. You tried to shovel by yourself and I respect you for that. I did it, my parents did it, some of my best friends did it. But deep down inside, we all wanted to murder that neighbor with the snowblower who was finished and on his second beer while you were still trying to throw snow over a snowbank taller than you are. So, here we are. You could murder your neighbour, which could ensure that you won’t need to shovel a driveway for 25 to life, but there are downsides to that too. What to do? Here’s the deal. I have a snow blower and I want you to own it. I can tell you’re serious about this. It’s like I can almost see you: sitting there, your legs are probably crossed and your left hand is on your chin. Am I right? How’d I do that? The same way that I know that YOU ARE GOING TO BUY THIS SNOWBLOWER. I want you to experience the rush that comes with smashing through a snowdrift and blowing that mother trucker out of the way. The elation of seeing the snow plow come back down your street and watching the look of despair as your OTHER neighbour gets his shovel out once more while you kick back with a hot cup of joe (you don’t have a drinking problem like that other guy). Here’s what you do. You go to the bank. You collect $900. You get your buddy with a truck and you drive over here. You give me some cold hard cash and I give you a machine that will mess up a snowbank sumthin’ fierce. I’ve even got the manual for it, on account of I bought it brand new and I don’t throw that kind of thing away. Don't want to pay me $900? Convince me. Send me an offer and I'll either laugh at you and you'll never hear back from me or I'll counter. You want a snow blower. You need a snow blower. This isn’t some entry level snow blower that is just gonna move the snow two feet away. This is an 11 HP Briggs and Stratton machine of snow doom that will cut a 29 inch path of pure ecstasy. And it’s only 4 years old. I dare you to find a harder working 4 year old. My niece is five and she gets tired and cranky after just a few minutes of shoveling. This guy just goes and goes and goes. You know what else? I greased it every year to help keep the water off it and the body in as good as shape as possible. It's greasier than me when I was 13, and that's saying something. You know how many speeds it has? Six forward and two in reverse. It goes from “leisurely” slow up to “light speed”. Seriously, I’ve never gone further than five because it terrifies me. I kid you not, you could probably commute to work with it dragging you. You know what else is crappy about clearing snow in the morning? That you have to do it in the dark. Well, not anymore! It has a halogen headlight that will light your way like some kind of moveable lighthouse (only better, because lighthouses won’t clear your driveway). Oh, and since it’s the 21st century, this snow blower comes with an electric starter. Just plug that sucker in, push the button, and get ready to punch snow in the throat. If you want to experience what life was like in olden days, it comes with a back-up cord you could pull to start it, but forget that. The reason you’re getting this fearsome warrior was for the convenience, so why make it harder on yourself? By this point, you’re probably wondering why I would sell my snowblower since the first snowpocalypse is upon us today. I’ll tell you why: because I heard it was time for you to man up and harness some mighty teeth and claws and chew your way to freedom, that’s why. This is my snow blower. Make it your snow blower.

 

UPDATE - I assure you that the snowblower is real, and it is still available.  Do not despair if you have made an offer on this glorious tribute to man's triumph over nature and I have not responded yet, your time has yet to come.

it couldn't have been better!

(A guest post by J-Blu)

Have you ever spent a day with Aunt Patti and Uncle Jeff?  Even better-a whole weekend?  It's fun, but you have to go prepared.  And if they take you to Niagara Falls, seriously brace yourself.  This is what's most likely to happen.



First, you'll drive around, trying to find a cheap spot to park.  Take the bussy thingy provided to the Falls.  You'll probably buy your tickets for the Journey Behind the Falls, realize you have time to do something while you're waiting, so then practically run a couple hundred kilometres to get to the Maid of the Mist.  You'll buy your tickets, the lady will say you have time to go on it before your scheduled Journey Behind the Falls, UJ won't believe her, but he will take everybody's word for it anyway.  (I know what you're all thinking-finally UJ comes in!  But trust me, you'll be hearing a lot of him throughout this warning-I mean, wonderful mind tour.)

You're going to wait in line for half a dozen hours, then get pushed into a corner, have some dude go 3, 2, 1, he'll flash a blinding light in your eye, and then push you along.  He'll have to give UJ and Punk a little more attention (especially UJ) because they're still in shock of what just happened, they're out in candy land of which no one in the real world knows exists.

After getting UJ and Punk back from-well, wherever-you're probably going to wait in line once again, go up in an elevator, have UJ freak the worker out, then get in another line.  Just so you know, you're now waiting for a blue, plastic poncho thing so you don't get soaked. 

You'll think the bottom of the boat is as good as the top so you'll decide to go to the back of the boat, on the bottom, while everybody is pushing to get to the top edges.  Punk hides behind the Canadian flag and it's attached pole, probably because he doesn't want to get his special forty dollar Blue Jays hat wet.  (I'm sorry if you and the Jays have a  hate hate relationship, but Punk has an adoring relationship with them.  What can you do?  It comes from Daddy Punk.) 

So anyway, UJ thinks it's boring because you can't see anything from the back until the boat turns around.  So he'll walk around a little bit, then come running at all of you, telling you all to go upstairs.  Once you get up there, you'll have to admit, it's pretty amazing!  After you've turned around and past the Falls, wait for people to stop standing at the top of the stairs for no reason at all and move, then race downstairs so you're able to get out quickly when the boat stops.  Don't go to the gate UJ thinks you'll come out of because you won't.  You'll go out the opposite one.  So you'll shove through the people who are smarter than you and run out almost individually-there's no staying as a group. 

Let J-Blu rip her blue plastic poncho thing right in half, then as you walk by, you'll all throw them out in the recycling bins they have set up for you.  On you're way out, spend half a million dollars to buy two copies (in frames!) of the picture you surprisingly had taken for you, even if you didn't want it.  Look at them and laugh at UJ, Punk and Bean and keep going.

Now book it 300 km/h all the way back so you make it to the Journey Behind the Falls.  While you're waiting in line, UJ will take Bean to the bathroom again because of the bottle of pop he drank, then wait in line for a few more hours.  You'll realize that you have to get your picture taken again, confirm with everyone that you're all going to make crazy faces, then actually make it happen.

You'll wait in another HUGE line, get yellow, plastic poncho things, and wait in yet another GIGANTIC line.  You might see a tiny, little baby that's adorable, but then notice that it has scary hair that sticks straight up, and should probably be checked out.  Watch it scream at the camera flash, then calm right down again-it's quite funny.  Keep waiting because there's nothing to be entertained by, then notice a very tall duck-like human walking down the line with stylish sunglasses.  His dad or whoever the guy is will cover for him and tell everyone who's laughing at him something that you won't understand.  Laugh because he laughed, and just keep walking.  Finally, you get in the elevator and have UJ freak the worker out and embarrass you all in front of an elevator full of people, then quietly walk out as if you don't know him. 

Go into the nearest portal thing that's gated in (you're now behind the falls!), watch white stuff  (the mist) fall, be impressed and walk down to the next one.  Same thing.  Now you're disappointed because you think that's all it is, but then have Bean lead you around a corner, to a set of stairs.  Walk down them and get soaked because you will be right beside the falls!!  Once you're amazement bar runs out, wait for AP to read all the historical signs, and go back down the elevator. 

When you walk out of it, you will freeze your skin off.  Again, let J-Blu rip her plastic thinger-majiger in half, and give them to UJ to dispose of them.  Spend a quarter of a million dollars this time to get another two copies (in frames!) of the crazy faces you made.  Leave the cave thingy you're in.

Find that Punk, J-Blu, and Bean are wiped, so get on the bussy thingy to go back to the parking lot.  UJ and AP will decide that they absolutely love and adore their niece and nephews so much that they'll take them to the MANDARIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Everybody is flying high over the moon, until UJ's GPS shuts down, not having the right charger that UJ forgot in his truck.  After a while of not knowing anything, everyone gets a little tense with each other.  But it's OK!  UJ will keep driving straight and finally find it when everyone is starving.  The OPEN sign won't be lit up, so you will all get incredibly discouraged, thinking it was closed.  Then, a Mandarin 'welcomer' comes to the rescue and opens the door for all of you and a little elderly lady.  Punk and J-Blu run for the crab legs right away and get piled high plate fulls for themselves.  They get a few plates like that, then go for desert.  Meanwhile, Bean will be a disgrace to the Szusz name and won't even have one crab leg.  No, instead he has eight pieces of watermelon, four ribs, and desert.  (But we still love him!)  AP will have all different kinds of food, including a devilled egg that J-Blu and Bean will not be impressed with, then she'll go for desert.  UJ will have one crab leg, half a small lobster that has seasonings, cheese, etc. on it, which will be wrong in J-Blu's eyes and who knows what else he'll have.  Then of course, he'll go for desert, maybe a couple times.  After all, the servers will be amazing, and it'll be an awesome day!  You'll all leave refreshed and very happy! 



The rest of the night is history and so is the rest of the weekend.

Now J-Blu needs to sleep.

(And she is sorry that this was so long, you should go have a nap, too.) 

in honour of Clark Pinnock

Patti's Note: Most of the time, this online space is light-hearted and mundane. I'm pretty much amusing myself and anyone who cares to stop by. However, this week Clark Pinnock passed away, and although I didn't personally know him, many of my friends did. One of my friends gave me permission to re-post a note he wrote in his honour. It is beautiful. I decided to share it with you. Feel free to comment, or if you'd like to contact David yourself, you can email him at sabbi@socal.rr.com .

---

I wept when I read the news flashed on a friend's Facebook page that my mentor and friend Clark Pinnock had passed from this world. In this transient age, our grief is untimely thrust upon us via uncompassionate monitors that sandwich sad news in between singing dog videos and the next American Idol ejectee. Such is our age, and as the news of his death traveled to my heart I thought back to a time when I had the privelege and honor of being in much closer proximity to this Canadian evangelical theologian. He was a man very near and dear to my heart, and I was proud to call him friend. I share my reflections in honor of his memory and send it out to all those whose ears are attuned.

I came to McMaster Divinity College at a time when its faculty leaned towards the left, itself the denominational ministerial training ground of a Canadian Baptist denomination that was deemed "liberal." I have since come to view those terms as almost meaningless, but if memory serves, they still had some value more than a decade ago. Clark Pinnock had been the lone conservative voice in that school for a long time. But a new principal had arrived with the mandate of moving the school back a little bit more to the right. However those ridiculous games are played, that was the "sitz im leben" of the college circa 1996-1998.

Seminary was a godsend to me, having emerged from a very experience-oriented church background that had not answered our theological questions very well. In fact, they hadn't answered them at all. And if you were like me, someone who always had questions to spare, more often than not you were told to just be quiet. I am not sure anyone but a fellow evangelical diaper baby can understand this, but growing up in a setting where eternal questions are put upon you at such a young age, you become a little too serious a little too fast. God is at the forefront of every thought, and theological questions about how God works in the world are constant companions. As I entered seminary, I was like a thirsty man emerging from the desert and stumbling upon The Beer Store. (Too lazy to think up a better analogy and my Ontario-based friends might find that amusing. I know Clark would have.)

I first encountered Clark Pinnock by reputation. My cousin Dan had previously attended the seminary and had suggested that Clark had been the lone conservative voice amidst a sea of more liberal minded professors. I still remember the shock I had in hearing Dan say the story of Jonah might not be true at all, and who really cares anyway? It's the moral of the story that really matters. In typical knee-jerk fashion I reacted as I'd been taught, to react with fear; "Who cares? WHO CARES? Have you gone mad? "What happened to you, man? How can you not believe it is a true story? Don't you believe in the Bible anymore?" And the kicker..."Dan...you've gone liberal!" I cringe to recall this, my little fundamentalist heart going boom-boom-boom in full panic mode. At twenty-something years of age, my head was still firmly up my ass. And in meeting Clark, he helped unlodge it. (He'd laugh at that too. I remember him writing Woody Allen quips on my papers.)

I signed up for a two-year stint honing in on church history since my undergrad degree at Wilfrid Laurier University had been in history. Somewhere along the line I had learned that reading history helped me more than anything else to figure things out. Unlike disconnected philosophical tomes or the endless biblical commentaries, I gleaned from the lives of people in the fray of existence, seeing how they reacted to this or that issue and walked it out in the microcosm of life in which they found themselves. And since I was in need of understanding how we had come to this position, those of us who called ourselves "Christians," what better way to figure it out than to incrementally work through the various stages of the church's life.

It was a slow and painful process, turning some of us who had cut our teeth on televangelist preachers and popular Christianity into more studious and critical thinkers. Early into my first year I recall a moment of chafing that culminated with my first real interaction with Dr. Pinnock, as I still referred to him. In my first church history course at the seminary, I listened to a rather long diatribe by a student who was a little too excited about the "filioque controversy" and how this small verbal addition to the Nicene creed in 589 had changed the course of western civilization. My inner idiot was rolling his eyes, mostly because I hadn't connected the theological dots yet, and this was a little too much for me at the time. How could three words change the course of western civilization? Reeling from my indignance, I then sat in for one of my first few classes with Dr. Pinnock who then proceeded into a discussion of some other arcane theological theorem by some dead white guy. Not being sure if any of this was really for me, I put my hand up and made a comment that voiced the sentiment of some of the other uber-conservative students. I was gracious but forthright; "Dr. Pinnock, my grandmother is a Lord-loving woman who has just a Bible and is never ever going to find any of this relevant to her life. I am wondering why any of this is even important?" To my complete horror, he removed his glasses and began to sob. He blew his nose and said, "I take that as a rebuke to my own life and my work. God forgive me for that." And he went right back to teaching.

I made a beeline for his office right after class. I still remember the little kleenex box he used as a doorstop, with a knitted covering his wife Dorothy had made that read "Pinnock." Through the door slat I could see him reading a book holding it inches from his face, the cost of some degenerative eye disease of some sort that was threatening to take his sight. I knocked and poked my head in the room. I began to seek his forgiveness for the exchange, my skills seeking forgiveness for making others cry had at twenty-four been somewhat honed in my limited interaction with the opposite sex. "Dr. Pinnock, I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean anything by what I said." He quickly passed it off saying, "No, no, don't worry. You and I share a Lord-loving grandmother, and when you said that I was remembering mine." And as I went out the door he said, "And David, call me Clark."

Who was this guy who broke down and wept openly among us mere mortals?

Intrigued, I began to read through the literature that he had piled up in years past. The first thing I read was an essay on annihilationism, the doctrine of belief held by a minority of Christians that the concept of hell has been more shaped by Dante and folklore than the Bible, and that the final judgment for those who finally say "no" to God is the final extinguishing of the soul ("...that whosoever believeth in him, may not PERISH, but may have life everlasting life" John 3:16). I remember thinking to myself before I read it thinking 'what is this guy thinking writing something like this?' but by the end of the essay being totally convinced that not only did this view appeal to common sense, but also to the biblical evidence. I kept coming to his office and buying his books and discussing my findings with other colleagues, my mind slowly relaxing and enjoying the newfound delight of worshiping God with the intellect.

One the main theological questions I arrived in my list-o-conundrums was the eternal condition of the evangelized, the unfortunate pagans not blessed to come across an evangelical who could explain the way to get "back to God" in a couple of easy steps. In all previous attempts to pin other evangelical teachers and leaders down on this question, I remember coming up with the hypothetical that for whatever reason started in with "some guy in China" who had never heard about Jesus or God or Billy Graham...so how was he supposed to know what "we" all knew so well? How did the great "them" become one of "us" if "they" had no exposure to "we" who could explain it to "them"? As if it was yesterday, I remember one particular teacher backing himself up against a chalkboard and repeating the a single Bible verse about Jesus Christ being the only way to God, and that "the Bible said" (how I have come to loathe hearing those words strung together) that a man "must confess with his mouth that Jesus is Lord." How it frustrated me to hear this man offer up this rote answer that raised more questions than it answered.

Clark Pinnock had written an entire book on this issue entitled A WIDENESS IN GOD"S MERCY, and I devoured it in a couple of sittings. In its pages Pinnock revives the notion of the "holy pagan," teased out in Scripture (cf. Melchizedek, Cornelius, etc.) and replete throughout history, of people who have made connection with God outside of the standard body of religious folks who claim that God has approved of their motley crew, and theirs alone. For millennia, the church had suggested that outside of its walls there was no salvation. To the contrary, argued Pinnock and other historical voices. God had made many a provision to reach out to all of his creation, and it was not as tightly roped off as many Christians like to say it is. If God truly be father over all of his creation, then surely he communicates in vast and diverse ways to all of humanity on many levels, some of which we cannot even understand. And specifically, to evangelicals who tend to hold to an exclusivistic position that outside acceptance of the person of Jesus Christ as the one and true way to connect with the Almighty, there are many other ways to make that connection than to "accept Jesus" as one's "personal savior." Pushing the envelope, Pinnock argued whether Jesus could know a person's name without them knowing the name of Jesus. It was revolutionary to hear this for me. I remember as if it was yesterday, standing just outside of the small Divinity College building and thinking, "This makes complete and total sense. I get it." God became huge to me that day.

Over the next two years I became friends with Clark. He was thirsty himself to hear people's personal experiences, having been partially healed of going completely blind, but also aggressively seeking out those of us who had emerged from the Pentecostal/charismatic world who were long on experiential understanding. I remember writing a 30 page commentary of random thought shards that came to mind after reading Blaise Pascal's PENSEES. I was one of the few to take him up on the offer to share personal reflections rather than write a long form essay. He personally thanked me for being so honest, and I could see that he was genuinely interested in what I had to see. How incredible was this, a teacher who was learning from his students. He was never afraid to share whatever room he had been given. On the contrary, he often promoted any one of us at any given moment.

One day we were in class and he was talking about the Death of God movement from the 1960s, a theological issue that was thrust into the public discussion in the late 1960s by two liberal theologians, Thomas Altizer and William Hamiton. Because of the atrocities that emerged after WWII, these theologians rightly wondered aloud whether one could speak of a loving God. A couple of weeks earlier I had tracked William Hamiton down and interviewed him over the phone. I had asked him what exactly he meant when he said that God was dead, and how he could still want to be a theologian if that were true. He answered in a way that only academics can do, saying very straightly, "When you climb the ladder of ascent and approach God, you come to realize that the only way that you can say 'yes' to him is to actually say 'no.' " Having read some German theologians, where they talk of God as if they are speaking with marbles in their mouth, I have come to understand the academicspeak of the academy and love it for what it is...but as a young twenty-something, I found that amusing to no end. And said so. When I informed Clark that I had spoken with Hamilton just recently, he was beside himself with glee. He immediately turned the class over to me and asked me questions for the last half an hour. That was just the way Clark was. He made room for others.

He scribbled notes to himself in class as we were discussing something. We would quip that it would later end up in a book he was writing, but we never got the sense that he was taking advantage. On the contrary, he was generous to make room for any of us. I remember commenting to him that I didn't understand why Calvinism - a system of theological thought that I am proud to say never made one hill of beans sense to me no matter how many times I read it or how many Calvinians tell me it is plain and clear in the Bible - was taught to young charismatic/Pentecostals when that system of thought seemed almost the antithesis of the experience-oriented and fluid world that pneumacentric movements inhabit. I boiled my thought down to a pithy line stolen and reworked from an ancient source; What hath Azusa to do with Geneva? (For those unaware, the birthplace of Pentecostalism is widely accepted to be a little storefront church on Azusa St. in Los Angeles, California where the home of Calvinism was Geneva, Switzerland.) Clark loved this line, and asked me to write with a paper with him about this for an upcoming Pentecostal studies lecture he was giving. It didn't pan out, mostly because I didn't aspire to writing theology, but he included a little footnote on an eccentric Southern California evangelist that I was ferreting out way back then named Lonnie Frisbee as a nod to me for whatever meagre assistance I had offered. It was always about seeking hard after truth for Clark, wherever it led. He didn't care about accolades or looking presentable or hobnobbing or making his reputation pristine. He sought first the kingdom. And we loved him for it.

During the two years I was there, Clark was getting raked over the coals by other evangelicals who unfairly challenged his thinking as unbiblical. Some of us caught wind of a tape of one of the joyboys of the evangelical insider brigade regaling his students with a lecture how Clark Pinnock wasn't even a Christian. We who loved him were rather livid and wanted to rise to his defense somehow. He just laughed it off humbly saying, "Yeah, I can see how he would think that from his perspective." He taught me in walking out his belief that you might have to suffer through being misunderstood, and that although the harder road to walk, that is sometimes the price you pay for seeking truth no matter where it leads.

The last time I saw him was shortly after I left the college in the late 1990s. I was on my way out to Edmonton to take a job at a newsweekly magazine, and he asked me to come to lunch. He spoke to me about the Trinity and what he was working on next, what would culminate as two books, FLAME OF LOVE and MOST MOVED MOVER. It wasn't totally over my head, but enough so that I just sat and listened. There over chicken salad sandwiches Clark Pinnock broke down the most complex theological concept of them all. It wasn't so much what he was saying, but that he was saying it at all. With me. Taking the time to be open to us and investing time as best he could relate.

Clark Pinnock was my friend. He was my mentor. And much of how I think about God stems from the limited but influential time I spent in his presence. It was a privilege and an honor to know him. He gave to me an incredible gift through his keen interest and encouragement, something I have never forgotten. Nor ever will.

David Di Sabatino

Garden Grove, California

August 17, 2010

poop in the bathroom, by kelso (day the final)

EUREKA!!

While at the cottage I decided that God DID love me or I would not have this wonderful place to go to as a respite. I also found this “Mom and Pop” hardware store that had piles of junk in corners and an odd shaped gizmo that the wise old man behind the counter assured me would solve my plumbing problem.

HE WAS RIGHT!!

In one fell swoop it allowed me to reconnect my toilet and my gleaming new sink. My son waited by the sink anticipating Niagara Falls and … nothing, not a drop. We high-fived and thanked God and danced a little. The tide had been stemmed. The plagues had ended. We had entered the Promised Land.

So now it’s time to reconnect the drain, you know, the one that intersects with the kitchen. I used plumbers putty, Teflon tape, plumbers wrap tape, new washers and flanges. I was ready to rejoice. I turned on the tap and water flowed right through the drainpipes themselves into my brand new vanity and across my new bathroom floor. WHY?? What more can I do? The one piece of pipe that I had decided was redeemable had done precisely what the other pipes had done. DUHH! Of course it had. Only, it hadn’t shown signs of problems before now so what caused this leak?

Remember the Pex pipe that was running through to the kitchen? The new sink sat slightly lower than the old one and had slightly displaced the Pex pipe so that it was making contact with the old drainpipe. The pressure of the new pipe against the old one had caused the old drainpipe to rupture so I had to remove the drain again.

Five-dollar part and an easy fix right? Oh no…not this bathroom. The final removal of the fractured pipe revealed that the drainpipe inside the wall was cracked and broken for the first 3 inches. To get around this I had to fashion an insert that went all the way to the kitchen through the wall on the inside of the old damaged pipe. So, after 4 more hours of grunting, snorting, poking and prodding, my ancient apartment has finally given birth to a brand new sink. Yes that’s what I said, a sink. No new tub or shower. No new toilet or bidet. Just a sink.

Now on to the kitchen.

poop in the bathroom, by kelso (day the second)

(for Day 1 and a little context on this guest post, click here)

Phantom fleas and bed bugs wake me at 7:15 AM. Go to Timmy’s for breakfast toilet and I bring my toothbrush. I almost feel human again but I have to go back to the house that Satan built. Stop for holy water to throw all over my bathroom, as if it’s not wet enough.



Let’s not deal with evil plumbing right away. Let’s remove the old cabinet so we can put the new floor down and install the new cabinet because then it will look like something major got done. "Great idea!" my feeble caffeine charged brain exclaims so I charge ahead.



Cabinet doors came off without a struggle and the sink came out easy too. This is almost enjoyable I think to myself but then a new issue. There is one piece of modern plumbing that travels through my grotesque old bathroom vanity on its way to the kitchen that has obviously been re-plumbed with Pex at some point. (Pex is a type of plastic plumbing pipe.) Once again, no cutoff valves.



The vanity pre-existed the modern pipe so the only way to remove the vanity is to either disconnect the pipe from somewhere or cut around the pipe by removing a chunk of the cabinet wall. I opted for the cabinet wall with a chisel. Apparently Pex is remarkably fragile and doesn’t really like chisels all that much and with one little accidental slip I managed to knick the Pex enough to rupture it. A new geyser has erupted in my water closet, which was never so aptly named, and I once again sprint down 3 flights to shut off the water nearly killing another of my new neighbors.



I have seen Pex pipe before but never repaired it so I had to do a little research to figure out what to do next. Called Spike who was out of town and he asked a friend who explained that I needed a clamp and special tool to fix the pipe which is true but there is also a tool-less option called a shark-bite connector which I purchased for a mere 6 dollars. I cut the pipe and removed the reluctant side wall of the vanity before I spliced the pipe back together. Turn the water back on and, phew! No leak.

My bathroom has had an interesting smell since I moved in and I can’t say it’s pleasant. Since the rat removal it is mildly better but still… something ain’t right. The final piece of the vanity is the base that has obviously seen better days so it comes away easily. "What creepy disgusting goblins am I about to find here?" I winge to myself. (winge is a combo of whine and cringe) Well, look at that. Just wood. Exceedingly grey and wet looking wood. It’s wet because of all the leaks I have sprung, right? Oh no. It’s wet from a whole OTHER leak that I haven’t even found yet. The drain that intersects with the kitchen drain has been backing up onto this sub-floor for years. The “wood” that I was looking at was held together by sheer memory because the minute I touched it, it crumbled into a wet pile of mush on my downstairs neighbor’s plaster and lath ceiling.


More rubber gloves as I scoop handfuls of soggy decomposed wood into a box for removal. I have changed diapers without any kind of retching. I have traveled to third world countries and worked in refugee camps. I have cleaned up puke and blood and all kinds of crap but this was tapping my gag reflex hard.

I am supposed to pick up my kids later so I can take them to the cottage for the weekend. At this point I am considering moving to the cottage and dealing with the 2 hour commute to work instead of dealing with this bathroom. After deciding that is not all that practical I grab the shop-vac and finish removing the goop from my floor.



With my heeby jeeby feeling in full force the vibrating of my cell phone causes me to attack my left leg in a vain attempt to kill the non-existent millipede that was crawling there. My creepy factor is now pushed over the edge as I read a text message telling me my children have HEAD-LICE!! It crosses my mind that perhaps Satan and God are ganging up on me to trigger some kind of “Job like” response. You see, I neglected to mention that the regular host of this blog and I had spoken on the phone the day before and she had said, “At least your kids don’t have head–lice”.



I lifted my voice to heaven and yelled-

“OH, COME ON!!”

And began literally banging my head against the bathroom wall. I stopped doing that almost right away. Not because it hurt but because it might open another hole in the wall for the other plagues of Egypt to crawl through.



I texted this info back to Patti who responded with a sympathetic “OHHHHHHH NOOOOOOO!” which I suspected may have been accompanied by some undisclosed laughter. I closed up the floor, made the place somewhat acceptable, left the water off and went to take the kids to the cottage where peace was rediscovered…for a time at least.



(Patti's note: I DID feel sympathy. I also DID laugh. But I did not LOL or ROFL. I didn't want to be rude.)

poop in the bathroom, by kelso (day the first)

A few weeks ago, I spontaneously offered Jarod a guest-post slot. That was a first for me. And the world didn't end or anything, so I'm trying it again.

I have a coping mechanism which I shared with Kelso (the winner of the problematic pompoms theory, and yes, I'm still bitter about that) after a teeny tiny reno job went horribly wrong - that coping mechanism is - "This is going to make a great story later."

He took me at my word. Enjoy - this is part one of three.

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So, I’m a pretty able bodied guy when it comes to DIY stuff. A lot of people think I’m a bit delicate looking for that but I don’t let that sway me. Anyway, recently I moved into what Spike refers to as a “trippy” apartment complete with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and odd shaped rooms. This is all very appealing to me with my eclectic tastes and such. So, armed with Spike's approval I jumped at the place.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not about to implicate Spike in anything negative because it was all me who made the choice to move there. That being said, 6 hours after moving in I had the words “WHAT HAVE I DONE?” reverberating in my head with all the subtlety of a drunken buffalo. So renter or not, I decided to invest in upgrading this place to something like its implied potential glory. I talked the landlord into contributing to the endeavor and made the trip to HomeDepot to get my stuff.

First room on the list? BATHROOM. If my bathroom could be analyzed by a shrink I think it would be deemed Bi-Polar / Schizophrenic with severe memory repression issues and homicidal tendencies. My idealistic mind had envisioned the removal of the “awful bathroom cabinet” as simply disconnecting old water lines and drain from sink and throw old crap out of window, laugh at resulting carnage on street below and install sexy new cabinet and hook up old lines and drain. Such fools we mere mortals are when the reno gods are in a mood to toy with us.

The old lines and drain literally crumbled in my hands when I attempted to simply turn off the “cut-off valves”. Well the carnage was all mine and the laughter belonged to anyone who was cruel enough to be watching. (You know who you are.) So, with water spraying in all directions I made the panicked sprint down 3 flights of stairs to shut off the water to my apartment, almost killing my new neighbor whom I had not yet met while she was bringing her groceries in. She still eyes me with marked trepidation.

So I return to my bathroom wet, sweaty and freaked out to begin mopping up the mess. With the mess piled tightly into my ill-equipped bathroom waste basket I began to dissect the dinosaur bones that I had discovered in the plumbing in my water closet. I AM NOT NEW TO PLUMBING. What I saw next will never cease to amaze and baffle me. I am familiar with pretty much all types of plumbing parts and pipe types and connectors but this was alien indeed. Connectors and adaptors strung together in a way that not only didn’t make sense but didn’t seem possible. Parts that had obviously been handmade by a drunk whose only previous building experience was with “Mechano”.

The parts did not exist in any catalogue or on the internet. Literally hours of research and multiple trips to Canadian Tire and Home Depot turned up nothing. The “expert”at Home Depot took one look at the photo of the plumbing I had taken with my phone, furrowed his brow deeply and got conveniently distracted by the needs of a customer whose home from was from this planet. I wrestled his attention back and he simply told me he had no idea how to help me and suggested I call a plumber. “Experts”? … O…K.

So, I took a break from the problem and started working on another area of the bathroom that I am even more familiar with, Lighting. Simple job, right? Remove an old light fixture and replace it with a new one. At least I thought I can do this job and feel like I have had some small success. Undo 2 screws and take down the old fixture. OK, the screws are out but the fixture isn’t moving from its lofty perch. “Pull harder” my brain says, so, being somewhat obedient to my imperfect mental processor, I pull.

Light fixture comes down with chunk of ceiling and wires. Fixture and ceiling fall to the floor and into the tub, tearing the new shower curtain on the way down. I look up after spitting a few ill-chosen expletives to see that I am about to have more reasons to repent for my choices of words. The wiring has broken off from a cable that is closer to my upstairs neighbor’s floor than my ceiling. To get at this connection point I must make the fragile ceiling hole slightly larger. Insert keyhole saw, cut gently and let the carnage begin again.

Another chunk of the ceiling falls. This time with an added bonus in the form of a long expired RAT!! Nest materials, a few shiny trinkets and a stash of hoarded peanuts deposited themselves on me and then the floor. So my YUCK-factor is through the roof now, quite literally as well as figuratively. I desperately want to shower or something to clean the horrifying “ICK OFF”. My tub is full of ceiling stuff and light fixture, my shower curtain is ripped and the water is OFF!!! AND there is a DEAD RAT on my bathroom floor!!

Ifind myself in a rage directed at everyone from Satan to the guy who wired and plumbed my apartment. They may be the same guy. Go to balcony to think….I decide to clean my hands and face with the bottle of water from the fridge and disinfect with Windex while I compose myself and drink a ginger ale.

Back in the bathroom with a bag, rubber gloves and a barf bag to begin rat removal. Bag the rat, clean up debris and deposit into garbage in back alley. I am now at the point where the sun is descending to its 10 pm deadline and my frustration has settled into an eerie calm that may have long term effects on my mental health. MUST BATHE!

I quickly patched the ceiling with a piece of drywall I happened to have and wired in the new light fixture. With the bits and pieces of partially useful plumbing items in my Home Depot bags I use my desperation-driven faculties to build a contraption that plugs the leaks so that I can actually turn the water back on and use my shower. I can’t flush the toilet at this point but I can fill buckets of water in the tub and flush it with the power of flowing water. I step into the shower at 1:30 AM and am asleep by 2. I have been at this since 7AM of the previous day. I ate a bagel. I am lying in bed itching from phantom fleas, bed bugs ticks and roaches but sleep does come.

poly-gnomials, by Jarod

I came in to work this morning, and found this on the blackboard outside my office. I can only assume it was left there by Jarod, although it's possible an actual poly-gnomial visited me.

(Edit: I didn't realize there was more behind the bookshelf, which had to be moved, with a lot of grunting on my part. Jarod told me that. But I didn't listen. My bad. So I'm re-publishing with the FULL post. Then I'm going to see my chiropractor again.)

And so, ladies and germs, I present you with the very first ever guest-post in this space. Enjoy.

Poly-gnomials

deriv: polus-gnomialis

Contrary to popular belief, poly-gnomials mean no harm or ill intent to humans. Like humans, poly-gnomials can range from fairly simple to rather complex.

Further study is needed.

Should you encounter a PG, go up and say, "Hi! Nice to meet you!" as this is their most formal tradition.

It is not known how long they have been among us, only that we know they won't leave.

Think of our dear friend Igor the monster. He is made up of many varrying body parts (though few are his and no two come from the same source). Like Igor, PG's are made up of different parts and different sources.

We have discovered that the average PG is comprised of 2L+2A+1H=PG where L=legs, A=arms and H=head. There are other essential parts, but those can be factored down into one of the other subtypes. Thus a poly-gnomial is formed.