After more than a year of planning and too many delays to remember or count we finally have a foundation for our addition. Our master mason, Chad Morrison, showed up this morning, Saturday, with his brother and two helpers and built all the piers and the entire curtain wall in about 5 hours. And the finished product is certifiable modern majestic masonry art! Chad has a few minor things to finish up tomorrow (yes he’s working on Sunday, bless his heathen heart), but the work is complete for all intents and purposes (um, that would be to hold up the actual addition).
Tuesday our HVAC (heating, ventilation, and cooling) contractor is scheduled to install the new air conditioning condenser, and after that the electrician will wire it up, and then Peidmont Natural Gas will come (hopefully) Friday to move the gas meter (which now is within the walls of the new addition) to the outside of the addition.
Dudes, we’re like, reeeeeeeeeeealy excited about all this. Things are finally happening. It’s very possible in fact, that the addition could be framed and dried-in (windows, sheathing, and roofing installed) within two weeks.
So, like, text us if you want to party down and celebrate this most momentous occasion with us.
Bring your skateboard, dudes (and dudettes).
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Near Death Experience!
Saturday Audry and I were moving rotted wood from the woods into the truck when I was stung on the right shoulder by what we think was a yellow jacket. The sting was just a slight pricking sensation for the first second or two, but quickly grew to be more painful and sting-like, so we went inside after about a minute to apply ice. But within 5 minutes—and over the span of only another 5 minutes—my arms, legs and feet were itching uncontrollably and breaking into serious hives. I was turning red all over.
Meantime Audry called a phone number to reach a triage center associated with my (lousy) health insurance to find out what was best to do for this sort of thing. I had never reacted this way from a bee sting before, and although I was seriously allergic to several bees when I was a kid, I’d been stung a couple times since and not had any more of reaction than a lump at the sting site followed by soreness and itching for a few days after.
But I was DEFINITELY having a reaction to this sting. So Audry hustled me to Matthews Urgent Care and, although there were a few patients ahead of us—including a small boy writhing on the floor and foaming from the mouth and nose—they took me in ahead of him. His problem could wait.
After the prerequisite medical questions: are you allergic to or taking any medications, no; any medical conditions, no; have you had any surgeries, no; do you want these three injections we’re about to stab you with, no; they stabbed me with the three injections anyway.
In the end I was glad for them. One shot of Epinephrine (EpiPen) to stop the reaction, one of Benadryl to continue stopping the reaction, and one steroid to—well—I don’t really know (but I have a prescription for that one). But they worked, and quickly. The itching stopped almost immediately, and the swelling and red skin faded almost entirely by the time we left the office about 45 minutes later.
But I'm used to injections. When I was around twelve I was tested positive for several bee venoms and began getting bi-weekly allergy shots. I had to carry an EpiPen (self-injected hypodermic needle) with me EVERYWHERE to use in case I reacted to a bee sting. Happily, I escaped even a single sting for 20 years, evading the horrifying necessity to jab myself like a desperate junkie.
So now, after being needle-free for decades, I have to carry a new EpiPen everywhere I go.
Life could be worse.
Meantime Audry called a phone number to reach a triage center associated with my (lousy) health insurance to find out what was best to do for this sort of thing. I had never reacted this way from a bee sting before, and although I was seriously allergic to several bees when I was a kid, I’d been stung a couple times since and not had any more of reaction than a lump at the sting site followed by soreness and itching for a few days after.
But I was DEFINITELY having a reaction to this sting. So Audry hustled me to Matthews Urgent Care and, although there were a few patients ahead of us—including a small boy writhing on the floor and foaming from the mouth and nose—they took me in ahead of him. His problem could wait.
After the prerequisite medical questions: are you allergic to or taking any medications, no; any medical conditions, no; have you had any surgeries, no; do you want these three injections we’re about to stab you with, no; they stabbed me with the three injections anyway.
In the end I was glad for them. One shot of Epinephrine (EpiPen) to stop the reaction, one of Benadryl to continue stopping the reaction, and one steroid to—well—I don’t really know (but I have a prescription for that one). But they worked, and quickly. The itching stopped almost immediately, and the swelling and red skin faded almost entirely by the time we left the office about 45 minutes later.
But I'm used to injections. When I was around twelve I was tested positive for several bee venoms and began getting bi-weekly allergy shots. I had to carry an EpiPen (self-injected hypodermic needle) with me EVERYWHERE to use in case I reacted to a bee sting. Happily, I escaped even a single sting for 20 years, evading the horrifying necessity to jab myself like a desperate junkie.
So now, after being needle-free for decades, I have to carry a new EpiPen everywhere I go.
Life could be worse.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Woodpile
After weeks of cutting down trees, sawing them into exact 16-inch fireplace length, and wheelbarrowing them to a pile near the garage, enough wood had accumulated that we decided it was time to get rid of it. We have no immediate use for firewood so onto craigslist it went. We placed an ad on a Thursday night offering ‘Free unseasoned firewood’ and my cell phone rang all morning Friday, and several other people emailed looking for directions.
There wasn’t enough firewood for all of Charlotte, but the second man who called, Mike, came with his son the next day and took about three car loads of wood (he had a Volvo wagon). And since he cut up a large fallen tree for us, I agreed to deliver it to his house if he loaded it onto my truck.
So load the truck he did. I was practically riding a wheelie the entire five miles to Mike’s house, and then once there I had to drive diagonally down his ravine-like back yard to unload the truck exactly at his outdoor fire pit.
Once we had the truck unloaded, the bed-liner was covered with chunks of bark, saw dust, twigs, which I made a subtle reference to, but without even a twinge from Mike. I thought that since I had gone out of my way to deliver the wood, which I estimated had a market value of over $100—especially delivered this way—that the guy would have been courteous enough to offer me a free truck bed sweep. But he made me ask for it. He reluctantly went to his house and returned with a grass broom and swept the bed clean, or nearly so. Somehow he overlooked the tailgate, but I let it go. I thanked him, said no more deliveries, he thanked me in return and I got in my truck.
Since an unloaded pick-up does not do well in reverse up a muddy hillside, we agreed I should turn around and go up nose first. But this was not so easily done. After at least a thirty seven-point turn between clusters of trees and a swing set, I managed to get pointed in the right direction. Mike held up a limb that was blocking the way and I proceeded gently and steadily up the short hill trying my best not to spin the tires. Nevertheless, the rear wheels slipped—just a bit—and I caught myself snickering at the thought of the ruts I was leaving behind.
But what goes around comes around.
Since Mike had taken only a small fraction of the wood we had available we posted another firewood ad two weeks later. Again, instant interest. I arranged for the first two callers to come by, and they did, at exactly the same time Saturday morning. I was sure there’d be a fistfight in the driveway as two pick-ups and a customized van rolled up to the garage and drivers with their various helpers began spilling out into the yard and surrounded the woodpile. But ultimately everyone played nice and loaded their respective vehicles responsibly.
What did go awry is that the van driver, who had a funny oversized upper lip, and a belly to match, tried backing his tank around his buddy’s truck and got his wheels stuck in the mud in the culvert along the drive. All he had to do was wait for his pal to pull out and he could have stayed high and dry, but no, he had to plow his own path—through my yard no less—just to get out first. It was pointless. He had no reasonable objective and the only explanation is that the guy was one sandwich short of a picnic. He had a total disregard for our property, and lacked any kind of sense about driving into a low area after a recent heavy rain.
When he had spun the tires sufficiently to bury the van up to its frame he got out and lit a cigarette while his buddy connected a tow strap to the van’s trailer hitch and prepared to pull him out. And this is where it got interesting.
His pal starts pulling with his truck and the van guy puts one leg in the van and starts working the accelerator with his foot while the other foot is outside on the soggy earth. Bad idea. Meanwhile, the van isn’t going anywhere because the wheel was turned the wrong way. So I point this out to him and he straightens the wheel and the van instantly lurches backward and the guys eyes pop out of his head because he suddenly realizes that his van is moving and only 20 percent of him is in it. So he does this panicked one-legged back-stepping skip-hop, a newly lit cigarette bouncing between his lips, as he simultaneously tries to get into the van and steer it safely. But the van keeps moving higher toward the driveway and the guy is going deeper into the culvert losing his balance with each step.
I’d love to say he fell on his rump, but he somehow managed to stay upright. The van stopped, the guy takes a drag from his cigarette, and hops right in. No reaction at all.
Just another day in Loonyville for this character.
What irked me was that he left a 10-inch trench in my grass with hardly a word about it. I think he said, as he was driving away with $100 of my hard-earned wood, “Oh, sorry about the mess.”
Right. You offer people something of value for free, and they squish your generosity into the mud as they leave. What’s worse is that those guys will probably sell that wood for a hundred bucks, too.
But no real harm was done, I got rid of a lot of excess green wood, and got a good chuckle from watching that guy shuffle in the culvert.
There wasn’t enough firewood for all of Charlotte, but the second man who called, Mike, came with his son the next day and took about three car loads of wood (he had a Volvo wagon). And since he cut up a large fallen tree for us, I agreed to deliver it to his house if he loaded it onto my truck.
So load the truck he did. I was practically riding a wheelie the entire five miles to Mike’s house, and then once there I had to drive diagonally down his ravine-like back yard to unload the truck exactly at his outdoor fire pit.
Once we had the truck unloaded, the bed-liner was covered with chunks of bark, saw dust, twigs, which I made a subtle reference to, but without even a twinge from Mike. I thought that since I had gone out of my way to deliver the wood, which I estimated had a market value of over $100—especially delivered this way—that the guy would have been courteous enough to offer me a free truck bed sweep. But he made me ask for it. He reluctantly went to his house and returned with a grass broom and swept the bed clean, or nearly so. Somehow he overlooked the tailgate, but I let it go. I thanked him, said no more deliveries, he thanked me in return and I got in my truck.
Since an unloaded pick-up does not do well in reverse up a muddy hillside, we agreed I should turn around and go up nose first. But this was not so easily done. After at least a thirty seven-point turn between clusters of trees and a swing set, I managed to get pointed in the right direction. Mike held up a limb that was blocking the way and I proceeded gently and steadily up the short hill trying my best not to spin the tires. Nevertheless, the rear wheels slipped—just a bit—and I caught myself snickering at the thought of the ruts I was leaving behind.
But what goes around comes around.
Since Mike had taken only a small fraction of the wood we had available we posted another firewood ad two weeks later. Again, instant interest. I arranged for the first two callers to come by, and they did, at exactly the same time Saturday morning. I was sure there’d be a fistfight in the driveway as two pick-ups and a customized van rolled up to the garage and drivers with their various helpers began spilling out into the yard and surrounded the woodpile. But ultimately everyone played nice and loaded their respective vehicles responsibly.
What did go awry is that the van driver, who had a funny oversized upper lip, and a belly to match, tried backing his tank around his buddy’s truck and got his wheels stuck in the mud in the culvert along the drive. All he had to do was wait for his pal to pull out and he could have stayed high and dry, but no, he had to plow his own path—through my yard no less—just to get out first. It was pointless. He had no reasonable objective and the only explanation is that the guy was one sandwich short of a picnic. He had a total disregard for our property, and lacked any kind of sense about driving into a low area after a recent heavy rain.
When he had spun the tires sufficiently to bury the van up to its frame he got out and lit a cigarette while his buddy connected a tow strap to the van’s trailer hitch and prepared to pull him out. And this is where it got interesting.
His pal starts pulling with his truck and the van guy puts one leg in the van and starts working the accelerator with his foot while the other foot is outside on the soggy earth. Bad idea. Meanwhile, the van isn’t going anywhere because the wheel was turned the wrong way. So I point this out to him and he straightens the wheel and the van instantly lurches backward and the guys eyes pop out of his head because he suddenly realizes that his van is moving and only 20 percent of him is in it. So he does this panicked one-legged back-stepping skip-hop, a newly lit cigarette bouncing between his lips, as he simultaneously tries to get into the van and steer it safely. But the van keeps moving higher toward the driveway and the guy is going deeper into the culvert losing his balance with each step.
I’d love to say he fell on his rump, but he somehow managed to stay upright. The van stopped, the guy takes a drag from his cigarette, and hops right in. No reaction at all.
Just another day in Loonyville for this character.
What irked me was that he left a 10-inch trench in my grass with hardly a word about it. I think he said, as he was driving away with $100 of my hard-earned wood, “Oh, sorry about the mess.”
Right. You offer people something of value for free, and they squish your generosity into the mud as they leave. What’s worse is that those guys will probably sell that wood for a hundred bucks, too.
But no real harm was done, I got rid of a lot of excess green wood, and got a good chuckle from watching that guy shuffle in the culvert.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)