Our House Is Haunted...By a Trucker

(copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

I cuss at dead people.

Not all of them, mind you - one in particular. A guy called Buck. That's not his real name. I changed it to protect the asshat guilty.

A former owner of our house, Buck was the type of guy who liked to "do it himself." This has been most unfortunate for us.

He was not a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician or a contractor. He thought he was.

In reality, he was a truck driver. We can tell.

I spend a lot of time yelling:

"Buck? You suck!"
and...
"Buck - WTF?"

For 17 years, he's haunted our house with cluster-Bucks: jacked-up plumbing, makeshift carpentry, fire-hazard wiring. Nails where there should be screws, screws where there should be nails, and nothing where there should be something. His actions have caved in ceilings, caused small electrical fires and  flooded our hardwood floors. Twice.

He's left our Allstate agent in tears.

Luckily, I'm a tough cookie. And I watch a lot of HGTV. So of course, I know everything about home repair and remodeling. (Just ask me.)

Lately I've been using my mad television skillz to remodel the downstairs bathroom, and I was especially excited to get rid of the heinous, late 80s, Garth Brooks-era medicine cabinet and light fixture. Both are epic in their fugliness. I blame Buck.

Simple things, replacing a medicine cabinet and light fixture, right?

(Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

You hear that? That's him, beyond the grave, laughing his ass off.

Because when I unscrewed the two screws holding the medicine cabinet onto the wall and gave it a tug, I got exactly...nothin'.

No movement. Not even close. Stubborn and stock-still, the Garth Brooks cabinet didn't move. I examined it all the way around, thinking I'd missed a screw, a stupid nail. Nope. I tugged again. Nothin'. The box remained, a monument to blue wooden geese and bad country music.

This reeked of Buck. Buck plus construction adhesive.

Instead of just screwing the cabinet into the wall's studs like a sane person, the village idiot our boy had chosen to slop industrial strength glue on the wall and permanently affix the Garth Brooks medicine cabinet in place for all time. Just to be evil.

Buck - WTF?!

I immediately knew two things:

1. If I ever did get it down, the drywall beneath the cabinet was probably jacked-up beyond repair.
2. It was time to drink my lunch.

I pondered my situation on break, and decided to save cabinet Cluster Buck for later and move on to the revolting light fixture.

Breaker off, I began unscrewing it, wondering what would happen next. Didn't have to wait long.

The lazy redneck had drilled a huge, jagged electrical hole on the SIDE of the fixture instead of the middle. Didn't matter to him: In 1989, his fugly light wouldn't show the hole.

Well, guess what dead dude? It's 2010, and my new, awesome light will totally show this gash. Now I have a huge hole to patch, and wiring to drag to a new location. My TV skillz will be taxed.

Who DOES this? Who puts huge electrical wiring holes on the SIDE of a fixture?

(Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

Ladies and Gents, here he is again: the Jack of No Trades, Mr. Mediocrity, the King of Half-Assery.

Buck? You suck.

Mean Mommy Strikes Again

(copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Recently, I baffled my boy - with baked goods.

He's a genius. We're so proud.

"What are those things on that plate?" he said.
"Those are cookies, bud," I said.
"Where's the box?" he said.
"There is no box," I said. "I made them, then I put them on a plate."
"Wow! You never made cookies before!" he said.
"Yes I most certainly have!" I said.
"Not since I've been born," he said.

The kid is right. Martha Stewart I ain't.

But when I do, occasionally, make cookies, we keep them in a special place, a magical place, to the right of the stove and the left of the sink. A place where salt is King and sugar, his Queen.

My son named this hallowed spot many years ago, after yet another unsuccessful attempt at feeding those two a healthy lunch, at which they picked, I nagged and nothing nutritious was consumed. I had gone into the bedroom when I heard:

"SCAR-AAPE...SCRATTCCHHH...SCOOOTTT..."

Uh-oh. Sounded like trouble. Kid-sized trouble. I listened:

"SCOOOTTT...SCAR-AAPE...SCRATTCHHH..."

Curious, I peaked into the kitchen to find a chair pushed to the cupboards. Halfway-on, halfway-off the counter, legs akimbo, was my son's diapered rear-end.

"What are you doing?" I said.

He froze, mid-sneak, and craned his wee head around.

"Going there," he said, pointing to the built-in bread-box.
"Where?" I said.
"Um, the Counter of the Junk Food?"he said.

Scooping up his 2.5-year-old Pampered behind, I took him to the other corner of the kitchen and introduced him to the refrigerator.

"This is where the 'real food' is," I told him.

I showed him the apples, the strawberries, the blueberries. I presented to him the cheese, the yogurt, the carrots and the celery.

Yeah, I know - it's hilarious. I'm naive optimistic like that.

He made faces, wriggled free and toddled away. He was having none of it.

The Counter of the Junk Food also ranks as the only approved meal location for my daughter. At work, I get phone calls like this:

"Mom! We have no food!" she says, panicked.
"What do you mean we have no food?" I tell her. "I just went to the store! There are cheese sticks, bananas, grapes..."
"Blech! That is not real food,"she says.
"I think God would disagree," I say. "What food are you talking about?"
"We need Oreos, salt n' vinegar chips, Doritos, Slim Jims..." she says.
"Okay, THAT is not 'real food,'" I say. "Anyway, keep looking - I'm sure there is some junk somewhere you'd like."
"There is not!" she says. "I've looked all through here! There's nothing to eat!"

Poor children. It's a dang travesty - it's a downright shame!

Contact the authorities. As you can see, I'm starving my kids. With produce.