The Best of Comrus: God Flooded the Bathroom

This post originally appeared on December 19th, 2006 at http://weblog.xanga.com/ComRus/557173220/item.html.

I had to call maintenance yet again today.  It started a few days ago, when I walked into the bathroom to find a puddle next to the toilet.  This couldn’t be, I yelled to the heavens, we just had the toilet fixed.  So I flushed the toilet (any good weblog entry contains “so I flushed the toilet,” you know), and nothing came out.  I mopped up, in that I grabbed some paper towels (like I’m going to go to the effort to pull out a mop?), picked up the rug near the toilet so as to eliminate a later possible need to wash it, and left it at that.  For the day, the floor was dry.

The next day came, and at one point in the afternoon, the floor near the toilet was wet again.  So I continued to fiddle with the toilet, and eventually determined that if I leaned on the left side of the tank (or right side, if we’re talking from the toilet’s point of view), Niagara Falls came to my bathroom.  This time I mopped up and left a few paper towels near where the falls hit the floor.

Did I call maintenance?  Of course not.  Sure, the toilet has proven itself to leave small puddles by the toilet when left unattended, but it’s not like it happened all the time.  We could live with a few leaks.  I mean, the alternative would be to actually call maintenance.  That would be awful.

As we all know, I hate doing that: gratuitous link to my post where I discussed that I dislike calling maintenance (which gratuitously links to another post on the same topic.  Both posts, incidentally, make up almost exactly what this post is).

The next morning, very early, I went into the bathroom and found Noah constructing something using what he called a cubit-stick, and complaining that the bathroom wasn’t big enough to fit something 300 cubits long.  Seeing as how I really don’t know what a cubit was, I accepted his expert opinion.  However, I had to draw the line when he wanted me to mail out some sort of cruise invitation to people like Mr. Camel and guest.

I then finished the annoying Ark-based joke, and continued on with the weblog.

So the bathroom was nearly flooded.  Luckily, it mostly pooled in the corner by the tub, so that most of the bathroom was spared.  I then spent the next 15 minutes cleaning up the mess, and sighing that I actually had to call maintenance.

I finally did so today, after the necessary minor cleaning, and they came and fixed it without too many issues.  But that’s not to say I now like Maintenance.

Anyway, after they left I noticed a large metal object next to the toilet.  They were in such a hurry to leave and check out of work for the day that they left a screwdriver the size of a katana blade.  And by comparing it to a katana blade, I do mean to reference the fact that the screwdriver was very much weapon-like.  It felt uncomfortable to even hold such an object, as its heft and length could only be used for evil.  As such, I became the screwdriver bearer, and had to bring it back to Nextdor to the Mt. Apartment Office to unmake it (yeah, I have been watching The Lord of the Rings series again.  I downloaded Rifftrax for the Fellowship of the Rings and got semi-hooked.  I just wish they had a Two Towers Rifftrax, as I missed watching the film without the commentary.  And to completely digress, I just started reading The Hobbit again for the first time since Junior High.  I never realized just how much it was written for the young.  Too bad, it used to be a legend of a book in my mind).

Bringing the screwdriver down to the office, however, posed a few problems.  The first of which was that I was headed out to run an errand, and I had to determine whether or not to drive the block to the apartment office.  I figured I might as well, but because of my experience in criminal defense, I knew that if I was pulled over, given its immense size, the officer could only interpret the screwdriver as a “burglary tool.”  Possession of such an object is a felony (of course, also in my experience, something as dumb as a pair of scissors has been called a burglary tool with enough prosecutor imagination).

I decided to drive it to the office anyway, and luckily wasn’t pulled over.  I then had to bring this gigantic weapon-like object into the office.  Do I walk in with it, scaring the hell out of the office workers?  Do I hide it in my jacket pocket, pull it out, and risk one of them diving to the back to call 911?  I decided to hold the “blade” of the screwdriver in my hand, with the handle rather clearly showing.  I have to say, it still looked like an instrument of attack.

And given the office-worker’s face, she interpreted it very similarly too.  I’m already a pretty large man, but I walked in and made the unfortunate mistake to tell her in a deep booming voice that maintenance was just in our apartment (in a very not a calming way) while walking straight up to her wielding a large heavy-looking object.  I raised my hand to give it to her, and I think she might have squeaked.

She was startled, and only after I started to walk out did she say “thank you.”  And then, as I was exiting, she confirmed my suspicion about the screwdriver.  She looked at the woman who entered behind me (who apparently worked there), lifted the screwdriver to her, and said, “be careful, I’m armed.”

Yup.  I’ll probably be brought up on charges tomorrow.

Cheers,
Charlie 

The Best of Comrus: Everything I Know About Car Repair, I Learned From Sitcoms

This post originally appeared on December 1, 2006 at http://weblog.xanga.com/ComRus/552306331/item.html.

Well hell, I might actually know something about cars after all.  Unfortunately, such a revelation comes at a time when one of our cars developed a problem.  Big surprise, I suppose, since all other times the only thing one needs to know is fill it with gas.  And check the oil.

The Cavalier has developed a problem.  Um, to put it in the most eloquent way:  erg.  We finally got rid of the Escort and now have a new(er) car, and it develops a problem.  My wife drove the vehicle to get her hair done, unfortunately in the middle of an area where the roads are busy and have no shoulders.  As she was driving, the battery light came on, and stayed on.

And what, I ask you, could that possibly mean?  Is it the battery?  Of course not.  See, I actually know the answer to this one.  Oh, I could say it’s because of my vast experience repairing cars, that it’s because of the hours I spent pouring over auto-repair guides, or that it’s because of the time I spent working as a mechanic to put me through law school.  If I said such things, however, I would be lying, and they would take away my attorney license.  Although, it’s not exactly like I’m using it at this point.  

The sad fact is that I learned about the issue via my regular go-to source for man-knowledge: The Wonder Years.  Well, I have garnered much knowledge from The Cosby Show as well (such as the episode where the family tried to teach Theo that real life was harder than he thought by emptying his room and treating it like an apartment.  All the characters acted as normal people in life: the landlord, the diner waitress, the “Furniture City” owner, the bank manager, etc.  Oh, Theo struck back with Cockroach acting as Theo’s boss, but once Rudy turned down Theo’s loan application, even he became deflated.  I cried that day), but sadly, my knowledge of plumbing (as mentioned in a previous post) and cars comes directly from The Wonder Years (or “TWY,” pronounced “Twy,” as the kids refer to it today).  The particular episode I’m talking about was where Kevin had problems with the car he got from his grandfather.  This car apparently routinely broke down, as I gathered since when Kevin went to fix it, Winnie said that it was probably the alternator.

(I am very proud of my knowledge of sitcoms, darn it.)

And, lo and behold (that’s the second time I used that phrase in a month.  Sad), when I was driving my mom’s Taurus in Iowa, the problem was the alternator, and the problem with the Cavalier is also probably the alternator.  Sure, I gained much of my alternator knowledge from the Taurus’ issues, but it’s all based in TWY.

I’m now convinced that the alternator is the worst designed piece of machinery man has ever come up with, next to Dell computers (although, my current computer, an HP, is not much better).  In fact, I’m starting to think that I need to change the alternator every time I change the oil.  That, of course, is once every three years.  You know, you need to change the oil every 3,000 miles or three years, which ever comes latest. 

Anyway, the car was stuck on the top level of a parking ramp, semi-far away from home.  So I drove up and checked the engine, at least everything I know about an engine.  First, it existed.  Okay, good sign.  Secondly, I checked the serpentine belt (which I only know of because of the recent replacement in the Prizm).  In good shape.  This could only mean one thing: I couldn’t fix the car (although, the only thing about a car I can actually fix is changing the tire).  Yup, the alternator.

Once my wife returned, we discussed our options.  The first of which was to get the car towed to our apartment, but we couldn’t reach her parents to see if our policy covered towing.  The other option was to try to drive home, hoping the car wouldn’t break down.  Sure, we could jump the car every time it died, but our route unfortunately required us to drive along roads without shoulders.  We decided to go for it anyway.  Hopefully, I could predict when the car would die when near to a parking lot.

Before we left, however, I called my mechanic (if you don’t know that “my mechanic” is my dad by now, you really need to read my weblog more often.  It’s a good read, I tell you.  Very funny.  You read, you enjoy!) to see if jumping the Cavalier to add juice to the battery would be a good idea.  I also asked him if the method was positive to positive and then negative to ground.  He responded by giving me the history of wet cell batteries and how they operate (to mi papa, I kid.  I do appreciate the advice.  Please still agree to fix the car).  Yes, yes, I’m cold, and I still need to get a troubled car home, I don’t need to know such things like red means positive and black means negative, especially when I proved to you that I basically knew how to jump a car by saying positive to positive and then negative to ground.

The expert told me that the jump, while not necessarily helping us, won’t harm us.  So we sat there for ten minutes in the glorious heat of the running car (a 1993 charging up a 1999 vehicle.  The irony.  Oh, wait, that’s really not “ironic” according to the definition of the term.  It’s more like rain on your wedding day), and then I entered the freezer of the Cavalier to attempt to drive home.  Obviously, turning on the heat would be a bad thing.  I was actually quite concerned about the headlights, but I couldn’t commit that obvious of an infraction.  I did, however, commit many others in my attempt to save energy (going under the speed limit wastes energy, right?).  We did make it home, but by the time we got there I was in need of medical services, as I had hypothermia.

Anyway, it’s a good thing the car is still under warranty.  We got a whopping 30 day warranty, but hey, it’s going to get us the car fixed without a dip into our wallets.  Kind of.  Because the car was purchased at a lot in Fergus Falls, we obviously cannot bring the vehicle all the way up there.  As such, the car needs to be fixed here, which unfortunately means that the dealership will only cover 50% of the cost.

However (which is my favorite word, apparently), we might just get 100% of the cost if I can get my mechanic to fix it, thanks to Jerry.  Yup, my parents-in-law’s car salesman friend is named Jerry.  To most of you, that means little, but it amuses me that he has the same first name (and, incidentally, very similar last name.  I don’t want to say the actual name, but it’s something like Gerhardson) as Jerry Lundegaard in Fargo.  Oh jeez.

Anyway, the mechanic will have to make a house call, which he dislikes, but will still probably be willing to do.

And why don’t all mechanics make house calls?  It just makes sense so that their customers can avoid the towing fees.  Oh wait, a lot of mechanics also run towing companies.  Hmm… in the legal field, we would call that conflict of interest.

To wrap up, by Sunday, we should again have two running vehicles.  Until, of course, the Prizm decides that leaving the engine by the roadside would increase its value.

Cheers,
Charlie