There were many plausible explanations for why water was seeping through my basement ceiling … none of them good. It was if my beloved can lights were crying — and so was I for that matter. Because the cruel defect causing this shitstorm would certainly not be an easy fix. Nor a cheap one. It never is. Nor was it in this instance, when it was determined that our master shower was improperly installed and blah blah blah it’s been slowly & quietly flooding the innards of our house for quite some time. (HOORAY for hidden toxic mold!!! Take THAT, my family’s respiratory systems!!!)
Fast forward to this morning — Day 3,48something of Operation Master Bathroom Remodel & Mold Removal. Or so it feels. I honestly don’t know when it began. Such is the mind-bending scope of the project, which is better described as endlessness wrapped in disarray wrapped in a billion sq. ft. of Visqueen. Stupid, miserable Visqueen — it succeeds in keeping like six grains of dust from escaping any given room … and yet takes the agility of a cobra to contort your way through it without incident. I have the agility of a wood stove, you see, and thus “incidents” abound & my blood pressure red-lines AND GODDAMNIT I HATE VISQUEEN!!
Indeed, tensions in my home are running high right now. Patience is not. The whole ordeal has taken its toll, and our already tight quarters have become significantly more so. We’ve been more-or-less confined to our living room, caged & doomed to an eternity of playing “Zingo!” for cash while snapping at each other sharply. Sometimes the power is cut, other times the water. Sometimes both. Sometimes it’s 300 degrees & when the TV works, my daughter insists on watching “Yo Gabba Gabba,” which is about on par w/ shoving low-grade LSD down your eye-sockets. Everything’s gone sideways in our house, and frustratingly, nothing is ever where it’s supposed to be. Everyone is irritable.
It’s not that we’ve spent too much time together, except that’s precisely what it is. We’ve run out of things to talk civilly about, and even uncivilly as well. A tense boredom hangs in the air like a thick cloud of drywall dust, which — ironically — also hangs in the air. Uneasiness abounds. Even the most innocuous of the mundane can spark a full-blown turf war of sorts; because why not? What else is there to do?
ME: Where’s my toothbrush?
WIFE: Look in the sock drawer!!
ME: DAMN YOU, WOMAN!!
And off we go, right into a heated 40-minute discussion regarding ACCEPTABLE & UNACCEPTABLE TOOTHBRUSH LOCALES that goes on for 40-minutes longer than it ever feasibly should. It is beyond dumb.
And if that sounds painfully similar to this whole ZOMG I HATE THE NEW INDYCAR CHAMPIONSHIP TROPHY! kerfuffle, well it should. Because it is. It’s the dumbest of Dumb Debates, and I’m as guilty as anyone for fanning its flames. Simply put, it was brought on by boredom & tension & because why not? What else is there to talk about? There’s a palpable uneasiness in IndyCar right now, mainly because the last race we remember was three fiscal quarters ago — and all the custom-made surfboards in the world & IZOD Girl’s rack won’t change that. We’re restless & bored and our focus is all queered up. That is no way to live. F–k this noise.
[peels back six layers of Visqueen to find some straight-up PERSPECTIVE]
You know what? It’s a trophy, you guys. And a rather cool one at that, frankly. If only because it’s interesting. But whatever. It could be a bronzed minotaur buying a hooker for all we care. It hardly matters. It doesn’t matter. Not in the grand scope of things.
Because in the grand scope of things, we’re down to our last 200 laps of the year. That’s it. That’s all we have. And by God, it’s time we started focusing on that. It won’t be long, after all, before the IndyCar season parachutes into that Vast Desert of Nothingness otherwise known as the off-season. It won’t be long before we’re begging for St. Pete to get here, but feeling as though it’s still some 48 lightyears away.
There are worse things than a mildly anticipated race. Like having no race at all.
Similarly, it won’t be long before my kids would rather jump head-first into a grease fire than play “Zingo!” with their parents. It won’t be long before my son will be holed up in his room playing “Halo 12″ or whatever as my daughter bitches about other girls & hates on her mom & does whatever else it is teenage girls do, which — if memory serves — can be quite unpleasant.
No, there are far worse things than being cooped up with my wife & two toddlers in remarkably close & dusty quarters. Like, for instance, NOT being cooped up with them at all.
Word. I’m out.
[exits through Visqueen-covered doorway ... trips & falls & almost suffocates self]
By Jason McVeigh, September 30, 2010 @ 2:15 pm
What a beautiful post.
Seriously, it was.
Also..
Its a f***ing trophy. Who cares what it looks like? If Will wins he’ll probably use the trophy to hold his honey and bannana sandwiches and if Dario wins then his wife will use it to hang those massive hats on. Let’s just enjoy the sport.
By rico500, September 30, 2010 @ 3:01 pm
Great post. I, too, have experienced similar joys of homeownership, though not to that extreme, thank the good lord. The good news is, if your marriage withstands this (and it sounds like it will), it’ll withstand anything.
And I kinda dig that trophy. Though it would be much cooler if it were the actual size of the sculptures at Barber.
Now, let’s all go and appreciate the SHIT out of the last race of the year.
By Mike Hare, September 30, 2010 @ 5:25 pm
Is it any wonder Holmes on Homes in one of our favorite shows (after open wheel racing & ALMS telecasts)? F*%ked up contractors ruin more of our lives than Penassi winning everything! That is far worse than any trophy will ever be.
By Earnastine, September 30, 2010 @ 5:51 pm
Almost sounds like a T.K. story.
Maybe it is high time to get excercising and stop complaining.
The trophy is very “gay” but that is art and in order to appreciate the art, you must submitt.
Time to grow up and understand that all ceilings fall down, and all things eventually come to an end.
When this season is said and done the kids will remind you how blessed you really are with just them and them alone. Just like (fill in the blank) no trophies are needed to remind them of this blessed life.
By bickelmom, September 30, 2010 @ 8:19 pm
As life has overtaken my ability to keep up with Indycar lately, I’ll be the first to agree we should enjoy what little racing we have left. And if the trophy scares small children, well, all children need a good scare now and then. I won’t let my kids watch anything more salty than Scooby-Doo, so we need this trophy. Rock on, IRL! Own that crap! Just give me a race so I can re-discover my zen (which only comes from watching 200+ mph throw-downs).
And sorry about the mold, Roy! That blows monkey-chunks.
By BC, October 1, 2010 @ 1:05 am
Well. All I can say is this: if watching IndyCar racing were as fun as reading the Silent Pagoda everything would be 100% swell. You load the latest post, and without fail it gives. It gives entertainment and a sense of [admittedly bizarro] community and insights and emotions, and the thing is you NEVER have to sit there and wring your hands over the mechanics of Sir Hobbson’s work. Because it is what it is and what it’s trying to be. It doesn’t seek to be something it’s not, it never overextends, and that just feels good to be around.
IndyCar is like this on one day in May, and only then. Regardless of the aesthetics of Sci-Fi Wheel Man, he represents that lonely search for a novel identity and the even lonelier circumstance of not knowing exactly what that identity is. And that’s a poisonous environment when you seek to win and keep fans. I mean, I so truly WANT to love it…but when it doesn’t love itself (“itself” being a word it can’t really even define), that’s tough.
IndyCar should be more like the Silent Pagoda. It should [incendiary opinions which are perhaps overly 500-centric and so likely to attract zealous opposing screeds from the most Needlessly & Intensely Serious Guys out there that non-censorship of this sentence is tantamount to inviting all-out factional forum-style warfare the likes of which we all know from hard experience is NOT part of the proper functioning of the SP, but that I nevertheless do think represent the best course of action]. You know? Then we’d not have to spend one serious moment considering the pros/cons of any old championship trophy.
Hmm. This comment brought to you by George Dickel Tennessee Original Finest Quality Sippin’ Whiskey, so please disregard if ye find it to be Too Much by any measure.
By Boo Boo, October 1, 2010 @ 3:30 am
I submit that it is simply not possible to be a “blogger,” and not also be a self-obsessed, bodice-ripping drama queen.
Give it up, Hobbson, you ain’t no blogger.
By Nathan, October 2, 2010 @ 8:11 am
Pfffftttt…..EVERYONE knows the proper storage location of a toothbrush is on the toilet right beside the microwave. That’s just plain common sense.
By DZ, October 3, 2010 @ 10:57 am
It is my considered opinion that the primary worldwide use for visqueen should be limited for something totally unrelated to the construction industry:
http://www.midwestsportsfans.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/slipnslide.jpg
By TJ, October 4, 2010 @ 3:07 pm
Just be glad there is a party in your tummy (so yummy, so yummy). I’m glad someone else shares in the pain of children that enjoy Yo Gabba Gabba. Good luck with unexpected renovation.
By Savage Henry, October 4, 2010 @ 3:25 pm
Christ almighty I’ve got the shakes just reading this post. Yo Gabba Gabba is unbearable under the best of circumstances, but you are forced to endure it while you’re living in a construction site. You are a stronger person than I. I would have been rummaging through the knife drawer after 3 minutes.
Zingo is kinda fun though – as long as your wife doesn’t make you let the kids win.
By Bob, October 4, 2010 @ 7:33 pm
When asked by Dave Despain what he thought of the trophy he just won, Dario replied, “Oh, you mean the naked man on the unicycle?”