The Cost of Speeding, with a side of Self Responsibility.

It seems every time you turn on the news there is some announcement of a new accident, or a new police program, or a new law that is somehow related to driving and talking or texting.  Distracting driving is all the rage these days.  

Years ago, I met a lady who had just moved into my area.  She had a brood of children from different fathers and a procession of boyfriends. Stability wasn’t her middle name, but at the time we met I didn’t know that. I was just happy to meet a new face in the neighbourhood. 

She told me a story about an unreasonable landlord who wouldn’t let her use her last month’s rent as her monthly rent, and how that had forced her to move to my neighbourhood. It would never occur to me to ask my landlord to use my last month’s rent as my rent. This is a person who thinks differently than I do so that piqued my interest enough to stick around for the rest of the story.

As it turns out the fee for retrieving her vehicle from impound and to pay the speed racing tickets was about $1,300 in total.  But she had good cause - she was driving home and talking to her boyfriend on her cell phone. The argument they got into was quite heated and she proceeded to speed at about 140 in a 90 zone right in front of the police who did their civic duty.  I never did find out if any of her kids were with her in the car.

Here’s where the conversation got awkward and I just held on until it was over. Her story painted her as the hapless victim, blaming everyone for the situation she found herself in. The (now ex) boyfriend, the police, the tow truck guy, the landlord, and every government employee that she called to get more assistance would have experienced the same 'poor me' story that I heard, followed by rage when it became apparent that they couldn’t or wouldn’t help her. 

Eventually with a little introspection many people would have settled into feeling a little shame and embarrassment for their actions. This lady was different - she was quite convinced that her initial behavior (speeding) should have been glossed over because she’s a single mom of many children and their primary care giver.  To this I say NO.  Don’t ask others to compensate for your bad behavior. Suck it up and make amends. If you want to know how responsible you are for your own life then google Larry Winget, he will set you straight.

Icy fun on the Roof

About 2 weeks ago just after one of our thaws, I had front row seats to a real life version of a 'Red Green' episode play out in my back yard. Imagine an old cottage with a large crust of ice along its roof edges, building high above the shingles as it tends to do over a winter. The roof isn’t steep, but it’s not shallow either. And you can safely assume that the insulation isn’t that great in the attic, hence the ice buildup. That's the house that backs onto ours.

So it was with great amusement that I watched an older fellow setting up a ladder in the snow and lean it against those shingles…I’ve never seen him before so he’s not one of the tenants living there.  Since this cottage has been for sale perhaps this new person showing up is actually the new owner, here to make a show of setting something right…Which would be fitting, except for what he did next.

Up went the ladder, up went the gent, and with him a rather large wood axe. Now, some of you might be as alarmed as I was. What was a guy going to do but hurt himself by climbing a ladder in these inclement conditions? And what on earth was he going to do with a wood axe? He wasn’t going to try chopping away the ice was he? Yes, that’s what he did…

While I was contemplating his doom with my phone dialed with 9-1 in my hand I watched as chunk after large chunk of ice fell off the roof and scattered in various directions, narrowly missing the ladder. This man was taking full swings at his roof with abandon. He did this until all that icebuild up was gone. I thought he was done but then he climbed onto the roof with a snow shovel and chopped at the rest of the dense snow cap. Several hours later I looked out to find him still on top of the roof, his pace slowed somewhat by the odd sitting spell. The last I saw of him he had retrieved some road salt and was spreading that on the newly bare but still frozen shingles.

I hope his work solved whatever problem was going on inside the house..... But those shingles are not designed to withstand the kind of treatment they received. Frozen shingles crack and split when hit with blunt force, salt with artificially age them.  I really hope that roof is getting reshingled this summer.

Not your average Tom Sawyer

Now, I’m no professional lender, loan shark, or gambling addict but I do know that if you owe someone money, and you don’t pay them they are likely to be pissed.  Moreover, if you try to duck them they will come looking for you.  So, when one of my jobs fell through and I wouldn’t be paid in time for the end of the month  I knew that I had a problem.  And if I hid from McLandlord, I’d have two problems. It’s bad enough not being able to pay rent but to have a pissed off Irishman looking for you is bad news on any day that isn’t St Patty’s.

I found my balls and called to give the head’s up about my situation and hoped that he was feeling charitable enough to wait until I got more work in a few weeks.

“Nie a problem” he says “I needa fence ovar at me old hoose, if you build er fer me. I ken forgive tha rent this month an yew can git back on yer feet fer nex month.”

I made arrangements to go to McLandlord’s house the following week. When I got there I found a small pile of lumber and a large pile of McLandlord’s nephew.  We’ll have to change the name of this guy for this story but we will not be calling him McNephew, he will be called McUseless. 

McLandlord came out of the house when he saw I was there and introduced me to his nephew.

“This ‘ere is McUseless; he’s my sisters lad an e’ll be helping yew today”

After going over the lot lines, McLandlord excused himself and drove off about his business.  I started laying out the postholes and instructed McUseless to follow behind me and start the digging.  Needless to say they don’t call him McUseless because of his ever increasing competency. I had to show him how to start the auger, how to use the throttle, how to drill straight down.  After 45 minutes he was done exactly one and a half holes. 

I took over the auger job and asked him to unbundle the lumber and put one post at each hole so that we could get started.  To my surprise, by the time I had finished the other 23 holes (one hour later), he had managed to put 1 fence board at each hole.  After getting the posts myself, I decided to alleviate him of any important jobs; it was time for him to mix concrete.  In a wheelbarrow, I showed him how to put in one pail of water and two bags of cement and mix it up.  I took the mixed concrete in two buckets and started to level the first post.  After getting it set and levelled, I went to refill my concrete to find that none had been mixed up. It turns out that as I was toiling, the clock struck 10 ‘clock and McUseless left for his coffee break. 

I was able to mix three more batches and level as many posts by the time he got back and the jerk didn’t even bring me a coffee.  He figured if I wanted one I should have asked.

The rest of the day went on in this fashion.  Build some fence, baby-sit.  Build some fence, baby-sit.  I had a great idea at about 3pm when McUseless still couldn’t figure out which ticky on the tape measure to use and I sent him for coffee.  He came back with a coffee, drank it, and told me he was going to school to be an engineer.  I asked “like at the front of a train?”

“No, the kind that tells peoples how to build stuff.  I want to be a structural engineer.” 

Holy crap! If this guy graduates I’d quit and find a job as a shit-shoveler. If the people who built some of our most famous structures — the empire state building, the CN tower, the Brooklyn bridge — had the same work ethic as him they’d still be unfinished and the breaking ground would fit in Tim Horton’s cups.

“It’s almost 4 pm,” McUseless declared without glancing at his watch, “may as well call it quits for the day,” With that he got in his Pontiac Sunfire and drove off.  I looked at the two sections of fence we had built.  I looked at all my tools scattered about the lawn.  I looked at my own watch that said 3:23.

I was a long slog but I got that fence finished at about 8 that night.  As I was fastening the last few boards, McLandlord appeared.

“I ‘ve been home since lunch and me an the missus ‘ave never laughed so ard watchen you put up with me nephew.  Sorry fer putting you through that crap but I wasn’t about to ave him follow me round all day.   Go home and consider yer rent settled”

So I really just was the baby sitter.  I wonder if McLandlord even wanted a fence. Oh well, I got the rest of the week off, rent was paid up, and when McUseless asked for my phone number (to hang out with him sometime) I gave him my ex girlfriend’s number.  That should even a few scores.

Broken Dishwasher

So doing dishes by hand has no advantages. It takes forever, you get water everywhere, you drop a coffee cup and it’s broken forever, you stack the dishes in the drain pan only for it to tumble over and you still have to dry the slippery buggers before you can put them away. I learned all this when my dishwasher broke down.

I had the Cadillac of dishwashers. It was quiet. It had a delayed start so I could set it to run at 2 am (screw you McGuinty and your on-peak hours). It could just run the top rack if you had people over for drinks. When this Caddy broke down I found out that as far a dishwashers go I’m a Ford Taurus.

I was clumsy. I was always getting stuck in third gear and never got around to drying the dishes. I broke down more often than not and ended up cooking and eating off tinfoil just so I could throw it out instead of cleaning it. I only ran during peak hours and, at night, I was too tired to do dishes. Something had to give.

I tried running the broken dishwasher from time to time but it just made a terrible, loud grinding noise and wouldn’t clean the top rack. I hated to call McLandlord and he must be getting fed up with me whining to him every time I had a problem. I knew exactly what he would say,

“What tha fack ‘ave yeh dun tis time? Do yew av shit fer brains?”

I decided to avoid the old Gray Abbey mick and spare myself from that half Gaelic and half drunk accent. I called in a plumber.
Less than 24 hours later my dishwasher was fixed. The plumber said he would put the bill in the mail when he had it printed and I could pay when I got it. Problem solved.

2 week time lapse…

Ring ring ring.

“Hello” I said

“Chicken bones are fer da stock and makin’ soup, you wasteful cus! Did yer mam never teach ya nuffin? Fer the luff of God, you cannae jus toss that shit in the dishwasher. An now I get meself a fackin bill for some limey plumber who I nare hired whan I plaumed for a decade in the ol’ country! ‘Ave you got shit fer brains?!”

I guess the plumber Googled the address and sent the bill to McLandlord, who was a bit upset about the whole ordeal. I suppose I’ll just call him first next time. That and rinse my dishes. I guess sometimes you just can’t win for losing.

Coming To The Party?

            Living downstairs in a duplex has very few perks.   As a matter of fact, the only bonus I can think of is that you are the first one to know if there is a flood.  However, I started to notice that  living downstairs seemed to get me invited to quite a few parties upstairs.  I thought it was my charming charisma and personality at first or maybe because I drink fancy beer and usually bring a 12 pack but, either way, I was definitely and often getting invited to the Upstairs Parties.

            Upon arriving to one of these shindigs, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know anybody.  It was my neighbour’s friends but I did notice that my hostess (who will hereafter be referred to as Neighbouress) didn’t introduce me to anyone and I always felt a little weird introducing myself as the guy who lives in the basement.  After about 4 or 5 beers I’d get tired and remember that I still had to work in the morning and I’d walk around looking for Neighbouress to thank her for the invite, but she was often never to be found.

            Trying to get out in the morning was a pain in the ass because I’d be blocked in and have to wake people up to get out of the drive.  The worst part was that there was no Timmie’s that morning because I’d get fired if I’d show up late for work. 

            Next Friday would be more of the same.  When I got home from work my parking spot was already taken by somebody.

            “Hey, there’s a small get-together tonight; you should come,” Neighbouress would say and then run back upstairs without giving me a chance to answer.

            Maybe three or four beers and I’d be tired of Buckcherry and Lil' Wayne and I’d head back downstairs.  My old radio could never drown out their music, so I would put in some construction earplugs and try to get some sleep.  Seeing as my spot had been taken the night before I had no trouble getting out but I was a little grumpy getting a $15 ticket for street parking after 10pm. Later arriving home I’d laugh when there was still a car or two in the driveway, people who hadn’t sobered up enough to make it home yet.

            This would go on 3 times a month or so and it would be the same story: you're invited, never noticed, can’t sleep, parking ticket, and late for work.

            Finally I had to put an end to this insanity. I called McLandlord to ask for help.  After explaining the situation he told me that “e'rey body 'as the right to enjoy thare own time in peace and quiet” and that he would “'av a wee word with de lass”.

            It wouldn’t have been an hour before McLandlord called back and — with that fiery temper that only the Irish get worked up to — let me know that “The nex' time det ye' feel like complain’n don’t facken whine tuh me wit chore arrogant self-rightchosness, and if ye' don’t like the party, dan don’t facken go to 'em!”

             Well, at least I know why I kept getting invited to the parties.  It seemed as though if you go to a party you waive the right to complain about the noise.  I figure Neighbouress knew exactly how to get what she wanted and she sure knew handle guys like me.  For the rest of her tenancy, I never got invited back to a party (six of them) and I never dared complain about it again.

Can I Borrow A...

As the fighting/sex sessions might have suggested, the upstairs tenants never really got around to settling in and moved out just months after they first showed up. Truck pulls out, new truck pulls in: Welcome New Upstairs-Neighbours.  They were a young couple, early 30s at the most, no kids of their own yet.  He was a mechanic or a delivery truck driver or something, and she ran a daycare from the upstairs apartment.  There were always kids running around in the daytime but they were usually gone by 6 pm.  Even if one stayed late, what's the pitter patter of a  30 lb kid compared to the slightly overweight ex-neighbours and their constant fighting and screwing.

One bitterly cold night I notice that there was an extra car in the shared drive, forcing me to park my half-ton way over at the edge. No big deal really, until I step out and get snow in the tops of my work boots.  A little grumpy, I stomped down the shared stairs and slammed the door to my apartment.  After dressing down and pouring a drink I heard a knock at my door.  Crap. They've heard my hissy-fit and I figure they are now coming down to apologize.   I put my drink out of sight and answer the door.

“Hi” she says.

“Hi” I say.

“…”

You know when someone is supposed to say the next thing?  She came down to talk to me and just stands there with a stupid grin on her face.  I’m really in no humour for this guessing game.

“Do you want something?” I asked in that sort of way that would let her know that I’m a little short on patience.

“I just thought that you should know that my sister is visiting and she just had a baby the other day.”

Great, I thought. You’re here to either hook me up with a single mom or you are really clueless about appropriate small talk.

“Wonderful, thanks for the heads up.” What else do you say?

“Actually, my sister just took her first poop after the birthing; she has been constipated for 2 days.”

Oh my God. 

“I’m so happy for you”, now piss off!  Holy frig, where’s my drink?

“I don’t mean to bother you but she plugged the toilet, can we borrow your plunger?”

At this time, I remembered back to when I first viewed the apartment.  McLandlord opened the door to the bathroom and proudly boasted that these brand new American Standard toilets were a marvel of engineering and that “this jack can flush the cobbler’s finest!” (translation: this toilet can flush a shoe).  If this poop is tougher than a shoe then I’m not losing my good plunger in this battle.

“I’m sorry but I don’t have a plunger,” I lied, “Maybe there’s one at the corner store that you can buy?”

“Oh no,” she says “It’s too cold, I don’t want to walk down there. Do you have a large wooden soup spoon that we could borrow to try and break up the poop?”

Now, I know what you are thinking.  There’s no way I’m telling the truth.  Nobody could be this absurd. Nobody could ask to BORROW a wooden spoon with the intent to RETURN it after using it to BREAK UP A TURD!  Well, believe it or not, that’s what happened.  At this point in the conversation, with my drink watered down from the ice and no food in my belly, I just shut the door, locked it, and cranked up that old radio.  All I could think was ‘God, please let these people move out soon.’