The Latest Excuse

Ever heard of a gas supply hose connector? Neither did the guy who needed one to finish our oven installation. 

It hasn't been a propitious project. After getting the opening widened per the new oven's measurements, we were waiting for somebody - preferably the former guy but really, anybody - to come out and finish the installation. 

We were ready. All the box cardboard is broken down, de-stapled, de-taped, and waiting out in the carport for recycle day to go curbside. The old oven is gone, no charge, even after we contacted our garbage company to haul it away. We were even ready to pay their $40, that is until Steve informed me he'd seen two guys in a red pickup stop, look at the yellow tag, and haul the old oven away. I called the company to find out if by any chance that had been their people (I usually see big trucks), and if not, could I cancel the pick-up and the fee? We got both right answers.

I compiled all the remaining parts on top of the oven, at that point sitting back in front of the entryway closet door, which we still, thank goodness, don't need to get into. The loose veneer around the opening has been glued back in place before the oven partly covers it. That done, I called Wayfair to set up the (next attempt) installation. Everything was in place for Saturday morning, 8-10AM. I was disappointed to find out the previous guy was not the one who'd be coming out. The company which Wayfair contracts with in this area posts the jobs and whoever bids on it first gets it. I left a voicemail heads-up for our previous guy, but he wasn't first.

We were ready before 8. Masks were handy, breakfast eaten, dog fed, watered, and let out for a few, window blinds open to spot the installer coming. We waited, did our things, waited some more. Just before 10 the phone rang. Our installer was running late. When he showed, there were two people in the car, a man and a woman. Hmm? Car trouble, got a ride, enough explanation. Of course, this being Arizona and still very hot, she came in the house too, and once we explained where we were in the installation, she was helpful in picking up the other side of the oven to set it inside the hole. (I wasn't sure this skinny guy had enough muscles!)

It fit!

But...

First the electrical cord didn't reach the outlet. Apparently the old cord came out from the near side and the new one came out from the far side, related to where the outlet was. Luckily Rich was home, had a heavy duty cord 6 foot long, and the expertise and things needed to  convert it to the much shorter length needed. It was perfect. However....

The installer didn't think they'd sent me a gas oven. It must only need the electric connection just made, right? I informed him it was sold as a gas oven, and the previous guy said nothing about it being electric. More checking, and he found the connection in the back of the oven proving it used gas.

Now he needed to connect the gas. 5 minutes max, right? If you know what you're doing. 20 minutes later I asked how it was going. It wasn't. A part was missing. What was the part? He didn't know the name.

But he was on You Tube, researching gas connections. Oh goodie, a guy with experience! With gas! These things usually require a certified gas plumber. One was required when we got the new countertops because our gas stove top sat on it. He was required twice in fact, for the disconnect and the reconnect. And this guy is looking it up on You Tube?

EEP!

Still asking what we were missing, we got an imperfect description of what to look for, something like a metal tube threaded on both ends to fit between two different pieces of hardware (showed me one piece) to connected them together. Further research revealed an actual name: a gas supply hose connector.

A name isn't a help yet. After looking around the house, even through the recyclable box pieces, in all the possible places along with several improbable ones, we decided to quit for the day. We both made some calls. Mine were to Wayfair (out of the office till Monday) and one to the previous installer's voicemail asking if perhaps he had seen it but put it some place we didn't look, or even accidentally took it with him? Maybe he even knew it was missing but hadn't gotten around to saying anything because we'd already run into the won't-fit-the-hole problem?

I can't help but wonder if they are all standard. Could one be picked up at the store? Or is this another case where new technology meets old technology and things don't fit? You know, just like the earlier cord placement.

We won't have any answers for a few days, if then. On the plus side, the oven sits in the hole it will live in for the rest of its usable life. Once. We. Make. It. Usable. I made sure he didn't connect the electricity so nobody makes the mistake of trying to turn it on, even though he offered to. I guess he wanted to feel he'd accomplished something after two hours.  But we have our floor space back at least. If I ever think I need something from the front closet, like a jacket or an umbrella ... oh, nevermind. At least we don't have that particular bottleneck in our walking paths any more... for now. 

I'm getting pessimistic.

So You Want To Be On A Ventilator?

If you're squeamish, pass this one by.

Seriously.

I recently read an article summarizing information from a funeral director on what corpses actually look like after long times spent on ventilators due to covid. Some of what they see during embalming or before cremation completely shocked me, not being something anybody had been talking about. If you're still reading this, you have been warned.

Covid wreaks lots of damage on the whole body. It's why it isn't "just the flu". You've heard about blood clots in major organs. I don't need to describe that here. But it renders lungs essentially non-functional, which is why ventilators are chosen as a treatment, in hopes that the patient can recover. Somehow. And some do. Covid is perhaps unique in that family members are not allowed to visit, and don't see the progressive damage being on a ventilator itself can cause.

Let's start with the fact that many people, like me, are allergic to medical adhesive. It takes tape to hold a ventilator in place. In my case, something other than brief contact with that adhesive raises skin blisters which peel away with the tape as it is removed and changed. (Yeah, been there.) This opens the skin up to pain, of course, and these openings give access to invading bacteria. This means infection, and more pain, particularly as alcohol is what is used to dissolve adhesive residue on the skin, as well as giving some level of defense against germs. But it's not a perfect solution.

Saliva is toxic. Never thought of that? It's the body's first level method of dissolving our food while your teeth grind it up before it heads for the stomach, being slightly acid. Our teeth need super protection to keep it from dissolving holes into them. (Ever had a cavity?) When you are unconscious your body gets turned to help avoid bedsores. Turning has also been shown to make breathing easier, a prime goal in covid patients on ventilators. Some of those positions result in saliva running down over your cheeks, further eating away at your skin. Gangrene can start, eating away at healthy flesh as deeply as to the bone.

If the patient recovers, survival itself is what counts. It far outweighs the damage occurring in long term ventilator use. But whatever else you are dealing with post-hospitalization, post ventilator, along with physical therapy for long unused muscles, and whatever else was the reason for the ventilator in the first place, you will also be dealing with whatever is necessary to correct the damage to your face. 

If it can be repaired.

If you can get healthy enough again to go through what is needed.

It's so much simpler to get vaccinated.

When An Adjuster... Adjusts

It wasn't even his issue, the reason why he was there. He was busy photographing the siding damage Adam left behind.  We got to talking during the form filling out bits and the measuring bits. The front door came up as a topic. Even after assuring him that this was nothing to do with my insurance company, a whole different issue and responsible party, he offered to look at it.

He pointed to one piece of wood in a corner. That indeed was where the door gapped the most. We discussed where a judicious whack or two from a hammer might fix the whole thing, and we'd have a usable front door again. Figuring it was worth the risk of making it worse, I located a hammer.

Whack! Whack! 

The door now closes beautifully, easily. 

As soon as we concluded his real business, I took a moment to contact the company whose stove delivery people put my door out of whack - so to speak - in the first place, cancelling any damage claim. Sure, there's a little hammer dent, but what door doesn't have one of those? 

Or do you perhaps live in another world than I do? Where hammers don't leave dents, and stoves fit properly, being the same size as the one with the same measurements that they replaced, and everybody's kind, and weather is predictable and comes in useful doses, and...

Steve Had Plans....

He was going to head up to the local grocery store in the early hours, before temperatures get beastly, to pick up one thing: Texas Toast. There is a brand of it that we were introduced to in Minnesota by his daughter when we visited her in her new apartment. It comes pre-sliced, heats in the oven for great crispness, and is more moist and garlicky than any current version of garlic bread in a sliced french loaf. Yummmm! While we were still up north he located it in the freezer section at a store we regularly use, and based on that believed we could locate some here. Only, he didn't get up and go.

He could have gone. He was awake early enough. I know because I woke up at 3 AM. After trying fruitlessly to get back to sleep, I decided the only real way to get past the list running through my head of things to be sure to do before the guy installing our oven got here which was keeping me awake was to actually get up and do some of them.

I started working on opening boxes. We had three, though only two were visible as I started, the one for the extra trim piece to match how tall the cabinet hole is, and the shipping box for the wall oven. I started by clearing off the kitchen counter, making room for working on the small trim piece box, leaving a dish towel covering the counter to avoid any possible scratching. The biggest part was the huge copper staples holding cardboard together. 

Rich had a tool for that. Yes, he was awake, making room for the installer to get past with his tools when coming in through the carport door, and later, hopefully, for the old oven to get outside since the front door hasn't been dealt with.

I brought the dog's blanket in the kitchen to spread out for the old dirty oven pieces to sit on and get slid across the floor on, a plan to avoid getting the laminate flooring scratched. It's not a sacrifice if the blanket gets damaged, since the dog won't mind more tears. Its earlier incarnation was a kid size quilt Mom made when Steph was a toddler, solid red on the back, cut up chunks of old men's suits on the other, sewn around the edges, and the insides all tied to each other with knots of yellow yarn. For almost 50 years it's been indestructible, kinda.

Then I tackled what turned out to be double boxes for the new stove. First came removing the plastic straps holding everything together, but that happened the day of delivery. Simple enough, already in a landfill. Now came wedging Rich's tool under the staples, working them up and loose and straightened enough to be pried out fairly easily. In the process I realized that this box could come straight up off the bottom base box, since straps had been the only thing besides a mild dose of gravity holding it around the inside box. By then the staples were removed, however, but no biggie. I just needed Rich's help on the opposite side of the box for a straight up lift so stuff wouldn't damage the wall or what was attached to it. After folding that up, Rich took it outside to wait for next recycle day. More chunks of cardboard in various sizes and shapes are still scattered around, awaiting the same treatment. 

When the time came to do the second box, I just wasn't into it any more. That was reinforced by the wording on opposite sides of that box stating it could just be cut across, down at the bottom, and lifted off the oven, similar to what had just been done with the outer shipping box. Had I been ambitious enough, I could have cut the bottom on one or two sides, but that would have been a lot of work for somebody whose knees still hate being on the floor. The other two sides were crammed against the sofa and wall, so no joy there. No, I can't slide that pallet over our floor, even if I wanted to risk scratches.

The installer could do it. After all, my instructions never included anything about opening the boxes for him ahead of time, just masks and distancing and stuff, plus where they thought the oven should be before he arrived. (No, even after reading that, I still can't  move the thing.) They haven't seen my tiny kitchen, have they? Not only would the oven have left no room in the kitchen for us to get in and prepare food, had it already been there the old one would have had no place to be set once removed. The new one remained boxed and right inside the front door, no further away from the hole it was going into than it might have been in any standard size kitchen. Our installer even agreed with leaving it there.

There were discoveries in the process. First, he located the electric plug in the back wall behind the oven, since even gas ovens need electricity. Lest you think that's only to be expected, may I remind you that the old dishwasher we replaced last spring had actually been hardwired into the house's wiring, no plug and outlet intervening. That installer created a new outlet and plugged the dishwasher in. This one didn't need to do that. So one good thing happened. 

The blanket worked so well for the old oven that he asked if we had one for the new one as it got slid around the floor, being also mindful of our desire to end the process with unmarked flooring. My other blankets are fit only for light bedding, being mostly thermal in nature, but I came back with a thick "bath sheet" towel. Perfect! And a nice dark blue in case of any dirt of whatever, something more likely from the floor than the oven. And yes, that area was washed after I returned home for fall. Still....

But the final discovery called a screeching halt to the process. The new oven was too wide for the hole! Yes, both are 24" across the front. Exactly. But that's on the front outside. The inner, hidden part wouldn't slide into the hole. Along both sides are what look like rubber bulges, maybe over screws or something, or maybe just something to help keep the oven stable in distance out all around from the cabinet it sits in. They don't give when pushed and bounce back. They make everything just a bit too wide for the hole. But hey, the vertical part, the measurement we were most concerned with, is just perfect with the trim panel we ordered!

Whoopee.

It's just a bit over an eighth of an inch total that we need to find room for. Ideas? No, rebuilding the cabinet is not an option. Our new countertop fits flush on one side, the wall on the other. But wait.... The wall side is lined with what looks to be, behind the front trim strips (aka veneer) a double thickness of particle board. If those bumps were lined up instead of randomly splotched all over the sides, we could cut out channels where they are and slide it in. Otherwise, maybe just gouge a wide section going back, large enough to encompass all the bumps within it. Or split out the particle board and replace with thinner without wrecking that wall or anything. No biggie, you know. 

Uh huh, yeah, sure.

Rich has a friend with maybe the right tool(s) for either option... if he'd just answer his phone, consult with Rich, and loan the tool(s) or come assist. We don't know yet. The installer left with apologies for being prevented from finishing, and gave us the info for being able to come back himself to finish when we had the kitchen ready, since we asked. He already knew the issues. He also had a few strongly felt comments for whoever gives only the outside measurements of their wall mount oven to a buyer without giving internal measurements needed for their particular  model, when it's made to replace an old one in an already built space.

Oh wait - it's there in tiny print on the very last page of the book of installation instructions and specifications in however many languages. So helpful. This must be comedy, since timing is everything.

So now: one old oven is in pieces on a blanket clogging the entryway between kitchen and dining space, the wheeled chair for Steve's use while puttering in the kitchen which usually sits there is now displaced into the remaining snug aisle between counters, the new oven sits on a towel blocking the front closet, fortunately hardly ever used, that space mostly allowing access to the front door (as if!!) or living room on the side now to any person who can squeeze through sideways. The recycle sorting boxes usually in a small part of that space have been moved down the hallway to line the wall to the den/library, and the remains of the new stove box, not to be confused with its shipping box, sitting where it was first placed, on a pallet, but bits now sticking out wildly in several directions, making passage between kitchen and living room on that side just a touch more problematic than before it was ripped apart by the installer - not as neat as I am - as well.

Confused? At least you don't have to live here right now! The old oven and empty boxes will go away first. I, at least, can handle the box part, though now I have to remove those copper staples so it's fit for recycling. Cardboard will haunt the carport for nearly two weeks till next pickup. The old oven will go away after getting it curbside and agreeing to pay our garbage company. Fingers crossed on getting that new oven fitted in properly, inexpensively, and without further damage. And let's not mention that front door.

We still have what we had before for cooking - microwave, stove top, outside gas grill, toaster. There might even be a magnifying glass some place for solar food destruction. But Steve didn't go out as planned this morning for his Texas toast. Could he be psychic?

Twenty Years Ago Today

There is a  plethora of TV shows and news commentary on the 20th anniversary of 9/11. People are telling their stories, either of personal experiences, remembrances of family lost, or even where-were-you-then? kinds of tales. I thought I'd add mine. It's not dramatic, heroic, tragic. It's just observations on the day, looking back through a cloudy glass of shriveled memory, by one who never felt personally threatened, since who would bother to attack Minnesota?, not involved except dimly, and unlike most of the world, only got occasional glimpses of TV screens and those gathered around them, so didn't have all those images drilled indelibly into their psyche. Just a few.

It was a typical September day, blue skies, few clouds, mild weather. I was starting my day with a pickup at a medical facility in Stillwater. I'd just parked my car in front of the building - we couriers have license to do that right in the driveway - and before I could turn the radio off the program was hesitantly interrupted with an announcement that it appeared that a plane had flown into one of the twin towers. It hadn't been too long before that where some small plane had hit a building, so I left my car with the impression that the same thing had happened again. Why don't they learn?

As I picked up my package, the woman behind the desk commented that it was really tragic, wasn't it? I agreed, not quite sure why she was reacting so strongly to a small plane/building crash. By the time I returned to my car, they were able to clarify that it looked like an attack, since another plane had crashed into the other tower. And these were commercial passenger jets, not little 4-seaters.

On the drive in, information began to build. Fires, people jumping to quick deaths rather than risk burning to death slowly since there was no way out other than down,  planes being grounded, another plane flying into the Pentagon. Even later, a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania, puzzling since it wasn't even near a strategic target.

Much of that information wasn't yet being broadcast when I made my first phone call, this one to Mom. It was around 8:30 CDT, and I knew she and Daddy always were up an hour earlier at least. I also knew they didn't watch morning TV. After the usual preliminaries, I told her to turn on the TV. She asked me why, but I didn't want to break the news myself, just told her there was important news. What channel was it on? I said, "It doesn't matter. It will be on all the channels. Pick one you like for your news. I gotta go." They, like everyone else, spent as much of the day as they could tolerate watching TV. I was different. I caught glimpses, but stayed tuned to MPR, public radio news, to hear bits and snatches of the events while I drove around working. (Later stories emerged of cases of PTSD from too much TV watching. I no longer felt like I'd missed out, simply grateful I'd caught just enough visually.)

I still had to work. By the time I got to my drop, everybody seemed to have the news. Throughout the day, every building I walked into, whether front desk or shipping, normally-business-only employees were glued around TV sets never before visible on the premises. They all spoke in hushed tones, wore serious faces, moved slowly when they had to go about some business.

By late morning I was about as far across the metro area east-to-west as I could get from where I started, making some forgettable delivery to a large church in Wayzata. Twenty years ago my knees could still tolerate all the stairs leading up to what was the main entrance for both the sanctuary and office. Straight ahead, in an otherwise empty open space, a small TV sat on a pedestal. Nobody there to sign for a delivery, but rather than search further I was riveted to the screen by the sight of one of the towers collapsing. The "experts" on the radio had just been pontificating about how the towers were constructed, and how they couldn't fall, just the upper stories would burn, still terrible, etc. etc., etc. Here in front of me was one standing tall emitting large plumes of smoke while the other one pancaked straight down, one floor at a time. Then it repeated. And repeated.

After I finally found somebody to receive my package, and left the same way I entered, that TV was still showing the tower dropping. Or maybe by then it was the second one. By that time, the rest of my day was a blur. Details were added, refuted,  corrected, building an increasingly clear picture of how we'd been attacked, and who'd been heroes by bringing their plane down before it could do the intended damage, how we knew because some had cell phones and reached out. Speculation was rife on whodunit and why,  body counts, bridges closed, what all might be drifting down from the fires, how cops and fire fighters had turned out, what it was like after climbing down one of the tower staircases before it collapsed, who didn't make it out, what bosses had done to keep people on site too long, who ran in and who ran away, and so forth.

A few people spoke of how awful it was to try to breathe the air, how long it took to walk across a bridge to get away from the site, how difficult it was to reach anybody due to cell towers being overwhelmed, how much dirt came in around their closed windows, how horrible it was to know somebody who'd been in the towers at the time, how "there but for the grace of God...." 

Some people were stranded for days when all the plans were immediately grounded, so the airwaves were filled with stories a little less horrific that what we'd just been through. A bonus of the groundings was not having any contrails in the sky, giving interested scientists a chance to study how much airplanes were affecting our weather. The rest of us just appreciated bluer skies. And more quiet. Any peace was welcomed.

It took way too long for the physical, health consequences of being on the scene registered. Nobody admitted it was  anything more than paper from burning business files, maybe ashes from wood furniture, a bit of jet fuel. Nothing like aerosolized concrete, chemicals from plastics and fluorescent bulbs, vaporized people. Nothing requiring lung protection. That lesson was learned long after, and somehow those casualties are still not counted in the death tolls from that day.

One story sticks with me in particular. A couple of women spent their vacation starting just before the attacks hiking the Appalachian trail, totally without modern conveniences like cell or satellite phones for communication, just the necessities for surviving and appreciating the glory around them. When challenged by friends and family before leaving, wouldn't they miss their phones?, they laughingly replied what would they possible be missing?  It wasn't like President Bush was going to declare war or something, right? Once they finally emerged, they entered a small country store, where the newspapers had huge banner headlines "Bush Declares War!"

Unfortunately much of America decided to declare war on Muslims. If 19 of them were involved, wasn't everybody? We shipped off all the Bin Ladin family safely to Saudi Arabia while closing borders to a religion. Many needed somebody to blame, somebody to wreak personal vengeance on, not somebody already dead from the attack, and struck blindly, senselessly. Our leaders declared war on an idea, terrorism, invaded two countries, and in doing so losing the support of most of the rest of the world, yet another casualty of the attack. Twenty years later we finally withdrew from Afghanistan, ending our longest  and unwinnable war, leaving us easily open to the charge that we were on the losing side of that attack three times.

So now we are left with the commemoration, the veneration of the victims, the education of those who are too young to have had the experience of it, and maybe just possibly, a broader perspective on the world and the consequences of our actions in it. 

One can always hope.

Ever Get That Feeling?

You know the one, when everything piles upon the next and the next and the next. It's the point when you just can't take on another thing no matter how simple or easy it might be at any other time. The things needing done that might actually involve what's going on are virtually impossible. You'd escape in sleep or reading or nonsense TV but even those things take monumental effort and you can't even get into them if you try because everything is whirling around demanding attention you don't think you have to give but which they manage to drag out of you anyway.

Naw, me neither.

Just kidding. That was my 2nd half of yesterday. Literally. It lasted past midnight.

I did manage to fight through to make a couple phone calls however. First was to the people at Wayfair to complain about the door, give all the details about what happened and finding out what would be done to correct it. Turns out the delivery company was responsible, I needed to get three quotes on fixing it, and they'd check back in with me in a week (!) to see how it was going because vacation, you know, started in less than two hours. During the conversation the front door popped open again, of course, showing that the heavy jug on the floor wasn't enough to keep it in place. It also yielded my personal directed inspection of door and frame to try to establish just what had gotten damaged, which yielded nothing more than laughter at my description of how the paint seal along the inside wall/frame joint was undisturbed. Sigh.

I did manage, during the conversation, to garner enough brute force to shove the door back into place enough that with more force I could turn the deadbolt and hold the door in place. It still wasn't good enough to let it simply latch, even after engaging the deadbolt. Much more effort allowed me to unbolt the door, so I quickly rebolted it and declared the front door off limits just in case repeated activity busted something in the frame further and we'd be stuck with a free exchange of outside air for days. Apparently any fix is going to take a while. Too many 109 degree days are expected. For the duration we get to go through the house and out the back door, over very uneven ground which is very hard on Steve. Rich is working on clearing a better path through his room to the carport door as I type this.

He got an ultimatum.

Next call was to Home Depot to try to get ahold of some mythical somebody who knew something about doors and installation or fixes, who might even have some idea about what it would take to fix a door refusing to close, and where I needed to start about getting an evaluation and quote. I was eventually reassured (?) that my issue was in a note that would personally be placed on the right person's desk and I'd get a call by the next day for sure. Uh-huh. Sigh.

Lastly was my call to my insurance company. My goal was to pick their brains about how to start getting  the right people for repair quotes. While I was on the line I decided it was also time to see about the lug nut damage to the front siding. (Perhaps Adam really has been somehow "persuaded" to stop his attacks.) Luckily I had handy the copy of the police report from May with the case number on it. This woman periodically let me know she was sending me another email doing this and such for each next stage in the process, finally assuring me an adjuster would contact me and while dealing with the siding I could also pick their brain on the door, already having assured them that the door was not going to be their claim. At this point I don't even know if there will be a claim acknowledged on the siding damage or whether it will be more than the deductible. Oh, and three quotes on the door shouldn't be needed. One was insurance industry standard. As if that matters.

I knew there was a generous supply of emails in my in box. I just couldn't bring myself to open my email. Not for the whole rest of the day. It's coming up on 10 AM and I've opened one so far. It's the insurance company's request to send documents to me via email, and I've managed to enlarge it past a #3 font to readable size and click a couple necessary buttons. As soon as I discovered the very next email was identical, down to the claim number and font size, I simple deleted it and closed email. I'll get to the rest. Honest. Soon. 

Sigh.

But since I'm not cooling greater Phoenix, I'm choosing to be busy today, since nobody could be bothered to be busy yesterday. Steve's taking me out to lunch. I'm running a couple loads of donations to a local thrift shop. I'm going to order up a dumpster for the driveway for throwing out a whole lot of stuff needing tossing, starting with the current wall oven as soon as it's removed for the installation of the new one, Sunday morning. Beats waiting for October 1st. I at least got that changed. Plus I finally pined down Wayfair to contact the installation folks and got the assurance that they would be taking the old one out too, since both gas and electric connections needed to be dealt with. They just take it out, not away. There's enough junk here to merit that dumpster and getting it all hauled out at once. I even have visions of trimming back some overgrown bushes that went overboard in their growth in response to the 4" plus of rain during the monsoon season. It hasn't rained since, with no sign of doing so, and they can't support the current growth. To survive at all, it's clip clip clip, haul away. I get up early enough to both just barely see the branches and tolerate the temperature. Besides, I had a little experience over the summer.

Well, at least I get up early enough when I can mentally settle down enough to get to sleep!

Sigh.