Hot Summer Something or other

Use to be this delightful time called spring. You know, right after those April showers came May flowers and balmy breezes and friendly skies. Temperatures hit somewhere in the mid-seventies and you could walk about in shorts and T-shirts being comfortable, neither too cold or too hot. Yeah, that lasted what? About an hour this year?

Those chiller degrees lingered about like Old Man Winter couldn't force himself to completely let go. We shivered and shook through those April showers, which were often April downpours, and then through the May showers cause the rain kept coming, and the temperatures weren't rising.

Then they gave a bit of tease and we thought maybe we would get a spring this year. Yeah, sure, it zipped right to July and August, figuratively speaking, before it got to June.  They said we were in a cold spell. Temp was only 86 outside at 7:00 that night. Going up to 97 or 98 these next two days. Where am I? Arizona?

Good think I get my walks in early or I'd burn my shoes off.

So this month isn't what we'd like, especially with Little Man dying last week followed by the air conditioner stopping conditioning. Yes, came home last weekend and we are greeted by my son at the door, never a good sign, saying the air conditioner is making an odd noise.

Squeal, squeak, squeal, then the noise stopped for a while, then off and on dimly. Still, I had the yearly maintenance scheduled to come on June 6 and it was still pumping out cool. Except they had cancelled that appointment and moved it to the 14th. They do this all the time, schedule my maintenance, then call and postpone it. Once or twice maybe, emergencies come up. But this has been every time, twice a year, these last couple years. Maybe I could overlook it, but I'm paying for this service, I paid for the annual contract. They got their money, they didn't postpone that did they, but come to service, to paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld, "They know how to make the appointment; they just don't know how to keep the appointment."

Then when the air died, I reacted too quickly. I called it in. I made an appointment to have a service tech come to check it out. Earliest he could come, June 6. Hey, wasn't that supposed to be my maintenance date before? And now it will be $79 dollars just to come diagnose the problem and who knows what to fix it.

So I cooled off, even though the air wasn't working, and I called them and cancelled the service call. Ah Ha! I get to cancel an appointment for once. It was silly, the maintenance guy is scheduled on the 14th. I can wait; we can survive that extra week, and that call won't cost me anything for them to come. And if they decide what is wrong will cost me, I may turn them down. I had window air conditioners down in storage. I've put them in our rooms. It's feels better in here than what the central air worked and probably won't cost me as much to run. I can live without central air and this bloated vendor.

And if they claim what is wrong will effect my heat come winter, well, ho ho, I have a maintenance contract elsewhere on the heater that will fix it for nothing. I had called that place, but I never took a contract on the cooling system, but this breakdown may actually be in the heater.

But anyway, here we go again. Little man dies, air conditioner shut down and a couple weeks ago the garbage disposal died. Last night the Little Woman  and I are coming home and grrrrrrind, grrrrrind, grrrrrind! Yes, my car brakes start grinding. Oh well, I hope that's all. I've had this car over seven years, over 77,000 miles and you know what? I don't think I ever had new brakes installed. Still, it's another expense, but I've been expecting the brakes to wear out for a while now.

Speaking of our motor vehicles, I had to visit my friendly DMV yesterday. What an ordeal that was. I had to go and renew my driver licenses. We have to do that every five years in this state. Not much to it, you say. You go in, they test your eyesight and issue a new card. Yeah, right, simple.

First of all, I was concerned about my eyesight. I haven't worn glasses for years now, not since the cataract surgeries, but I knew my distance vision had slipped a notch. Last month I went to the eye doctor and got an exam and now have new glasses. Good thing as it were. I tried the eye test without the glasses and couldn't read the line, so now I have that restriction on my card, "Must wear corrective lens".

But that's no big deal. It is the new Federal Driver License requirements that bug me. You see, driving has always been a state determined affair, but now the Federal Government has to get involved. If you don't get a Federally approved driver's license, then you can't even take domestic flights let alone get a passport. You won't be allowed to enter Federal Buildings, either, which I don't know if also includes Post Offices.

To get a license here now this is what you need to provide (originals, not copies): your old license if renewing, your social security card, your birth certificate and two pieces of mail addressed to your name in your current address and delivered by the U. S. Postal Service within the last two weeks. You also have to bring proof of every time you ever had your name changed, if you ever have.

Not so bad for me, a male who was born with this moniker, but harder for my wife and other married women. I'm concerned because proof of her name change can be our marriage license, but after 50 years I have no idea where that is. I think about some women I know who have married multiple times and after the divorces changed their names back. They have to provide proof for every single time they changed that name one way or another. Good luck, ladies.

There is irony in having to have pieces of mail. It can't be something delivered by FedEx or UPS or Online. It has to be delivered by U. S. Mail. Problem is every kind of bill or statement I use to get by U. S. mail, the company has encouraged "Going Green" and not receiving a paper statement or bill. Most of my stuff is that way. You can bring junk mail, finally a use for it. Most of my junk mail goes from mailbox to trash can. (Sorry, mailbox to recycle bin, cause we do that recycle stuff now because once again the government has to butt into our lives.) But you have to be certain whatever junk mail you bring has a date on it somewhere or it doesn't count. I took four pieces of mail with me, which turned out to be smart, because one of the first two pieces I presented wasn't accepted — no date.

So I get to the DMV and the main parking lot is full. I park in the secondary lot and walk back to the building. The temperature is now up to like 98 degrees. It ain't real cool inside the building either and it is full of people, so it only gets hotter. I check in at the reception desk, am given a number and told to stand in a line nearby.

This line gets you to the person checking that you have the correct handful of credentials. A lot of people were turned away. I had everything. I was told to get in one of the two lines by the windows to the front. They were two fairly long lines leading toward two booths on the side wall stationed by two clerks. There was a board on the wall saying how many people were there for varies services. It said, "Driver License Renewals - 72: 50 minute wait." Sorta like going on a ride at Walt Disney World. Let me tell you right up front, 50 minute wait — double that and you are nearer to the truth.

I pick the second line from the window. Both lines are pretty even at this point. I have number 222 and the booth in front of this line has a 220 something number over it and the other has a 210 something number, so I think all 220 somethings get in this line. Number had nothing to do with it. You just shuffled along in line until your turn.

Booths didn't have a lot to do with it either. I'm in line and the guy my line seems to go toward finishes with a person, then gets up and leaves. His fifteen minute break, I guess, because he was gone that long. Now there is just the woman in the other booth taking people. It looks to be one from column A and then one from column B. Every person who wins a moment in the sun is there more than a moment. It seems each person takes 15 minutes. I think, we will be here to midnight.

Time goes by so slowly and time can do so much, and the guy comes back from break. Hooray, maybe we'll speed up.

The lady now goes on break.

Fifteen minutes later, she comes back. Finally, two clerks. The guy handles two more people and what? He gets up. He leaves. He's done. He's through for the day. Are you kidding me?

And the lady now stops processing to confer with her supervisor or something.

When she resumes processing, somehow the line nearest the window, column A, has dwindled to one person. The lady clerk now stands up and yells there has to be two lines. She starts telling every other person in column B to duck under the rope into column A. Mass confusion reins. People are asking, "What? What she say? Do what? I didn't hear here. Etceteras, etceteras, etceteras." Some do duck, some don't. I don't, but people from far behind me in column B rush forward into column A and I lose one spot in line in all the shuffle.

Now there is more confusion up front, more conferences, I am standing there thinking, "And some people actually want the government to run their health care!"

There is a young fellow ahead of me. He has been growing more and more anxious. We have been waiting a long time by now. I tell him, "By the time you get up there, you'll have grey hair like me."

People around us laugh.

He looks horrified. "No, I won't," he says, "I'm only 22."

"You won't be by the time you get up there," I say.

He is really getting nervous. Turns out he has a bus to catch in about a half hour. He yells out at the clerk, "Hey, let's speed it up up there!"  I expect big heavy security guards to flock upon us and haul him away as a terrorist.

We have finally come to the point it is his turn. He leaps in joy — literally. He does a little dance up to the counter. Even the clerk laughs. He is so happy. He is being processed. But then at the end the clerk asks for payment and he has no money on him. He says this is his first time doing this, he didn't know it cost anything. He has to leave empty handed. I feel bad for him.

Now I wait while the next person in column A goes up. The second person in that line asks me, "Say, weren't you ahead of her."

"Yes," I explain, "but I lost my spot when they did that line switch thing. But it's okay. What's one more person at this point?"

The woman likes my attitude.

My turn comes, and other than being unable to see anything in the machine without glasses, I pass and have my photo snapped and am given my receipt and sent off to another room to collect my license. The clerk was very pleasant to me, let me add. But oh what a confusing, long and hot ordeal getting to see her face to face.

I'm glad I don't have to do this again for another five years.

Now the Whole Hole Thing

The technician and I have abandoned any further search for a shut off valve on the external faucet. We have shut off the entire water supply to the house and he is ready to replace that dripping spigot.

(What's the difference between a faucet and a spigot? One starts with f and one with s. They are two words we Americans use for what the British call a tap.)

He goes to his truck and comes back with a bucket, torch, and a reciprocal saw.

Now we have some cats. When the plumber first came and examined the new vanity to be installed, Mark jumped inside as soon as he opened the door. I am concerned about a cat jumping in the hole he is about to make and becoming lost inside out walls. However, once he turned on that overgrown saber saw there is such a gut-wrenching noise all the cats scatter to their preferred hide-y-holes beneath sofas and bureaus. No feline is going to pester the guy while he is doing this work.

Since the pipe is behind the wall of our entryway closet (the double doors to the left of the cats in the picture) I first must empty it out and make space. It is amazing how many coats one can have they never seem to wear. I pull everything off the rod and carry this apparel to the bedroom. I still must remove various items from off the closet floor. Everything not in immediate use gets chucked into this closet.

Now he can begin with his noisy saw and fix this tap trouble.

The hole is cut and the saw is silent and I hear a "Hmmm".

As stated previously, "hmmm"s are never a good sign. He calls me.

He is concerned about what lies behind the wall. We both squat down to peer through the square he cut.

"There's this two by four," he says.

I can see it.

"The pipe is behind it and up about two or three inches."

We both feel up behind this board. Yes, I can feel the pipe right up against the back of this plank.

"I don't know what this board is," he says. "it runs all the way up about two feet."

We both reach up as far as we can through the hole to measure the height of this board. It does indeed stretch up about two feet  therefore, it is not a two by four; more a two by twenty-four. So what is the problem.

"I just don't know why this board is here," he continues. "I have to cut it to reach the pipe, but I just don't know what it is."

"You have to cut it?"

"Yes. There is no other way I can reach the pipe. But I'm not sure what this board is and I'm reluctant to cut it."

Now he is scaring me. What is he saying? Is he saying if he cuts the board the whole house tumbles down around our ears?

Whatever, he really doesn't want to cut the board.

Now he goes outside and takes a wrench to the faucet. He removed the handle and pulls out the upper assembly. I see him go to the truck. He comes back with a short length of pipe with an old faucet in its middle. He sits down and he is tinkering with this old spigot.

Finally he comes back in and calls me.

"I thought maybe I could do something with the washer," he says. (Gee, why didn't we start there?) "But when I got it apart the whole bottom was missing, no washer or screw. I thought maybe I could use part of an old faucet, but nothing fit, so I just put your spigot back together.

"I won't charge you anything for the job because I couldn't fix it."

So we settle up the bill and he goes his way. I have my vanity installed and my bathroom faucet problem solved, but I am also left with a hole in the wall and a leaking outside tap.

We've lived with its little drip for eight months, I guess we can live with forever more.

I figure I better patch up the hole before some cat discovers it. I go to the utility room and look for some spackle or patch. All my containers have dried up. I'll have to run out and buy some.

As I leave, I notice it is only a few minutes past ten. I decide to drive to the DMV and get my car inspected. This has also been worrying my mind all summer. In this state when you buy a new car you don't have to have it inspected or buy a new registration sticker for five years. My car is now five years old and my sticker expires on August 15.  I have not had a very lucky season and I am nervous that the car won't pass, that it will need brakes or shutter, dread, stark fear, not pass the emissions test.

But we are already into the first week of August and I can't put it off too much longer. What is something is wrong? I'll need time to get it fixed. I had been thinking about taking it to the DMV tomorrow, Wednesday, after work. This is the only day the DMV stays open late. But today I am off, it is still early, let's get it over with.

The state does the inspection here. You go through a bay and they work it over. The disadvantage is you sometimes wait in a long line. The advantage is you know exactly what is wrong, if anything, and no garage mechanic can sell you on something you don't need done.

I drive down the inspection lanes and am the third car in line in lane two. I am watching the inspectors working ahead. They seem to be going through it fairly fast and I don't see them sticking any hoses up tailpipes or anything. Maybe they are going easy today and skipping steps.

I am finally number one and motioned down. Come on, come on, come on, he is motioning and then the "hit it" sign and I slam to a stop. This is the brake test. The man asks me for my registration card and how many miles I have. He disappears into his both, makes some marks, hands me back my card and says pull up to any bay with a green light.

They have changed the procedure. Now you go through two bays. This was just the brake check. Here we go, nervous time all over again.

I am again third in line. Now I am two in line and the car before me is motioned all the way down into the bay and the inspector comes walking out of the bay with an orange pyramid. What is this? He motions me forward to just inside the door and motions the car behind me up closer. He then sets the pyramid behind that car. Wow, just made it, this guy is shutting down the lane. Probably going on his lunch break.

I get to the actual inspection station. He walks about the car, lights, high beam, blow the horn, left turn signal, right turn signal, same in the rear, put the car in park and step out please.

No, I'm not being arrested. In newer cars they no longer have to stick a pipe up the tailpipe. They plug a cord into something beneath the dash board. It is much faster than the old days.

He tells me to get back in the car. He tells me everything is fine. He wishes me a good day.

What relief. I worried for nothing. I have passed, now I just need to go inside and pay for a new sticker. I always get the two-year one. The less I go through inspection, the better.

I drive to the administration building and there are no parking spaces. I drive up a row and down a row and around a row and each time if a space opens someone coming the other direction always grabs it before I can get there. I drive out of that lot and ahead is another lot with plenty of spaces. As I enter it I see a sign, "Employee Parking Only" off to my right.

I circle around and go back to the administration building lot. Still no spaces. I see people walking out of that other lot with papers in their hands. The heck with it, I'm parking over there. Maybe employee parking is only the right section.

I get in the building and take a number as if I am at the deli counter of the super market. I have 911. 9/11 is this an omen. Last spring when I came here on another matter I got 666.

Like the deli department, they call your number and direct you to a window. I look at the number now being serviced, 982. I have a wait ahead.

Two hours later, after a quick stop at a hardware store, I am back home patching the hole.

He has cut it in two pieces. I paste in the first piece. Now I get the second piece and set it atop of the first and my hand slips and this piece disappears behind the wall. I remove the first piece again and reach behind the wall as far down as I can. No piece. I can feel a ridge of floor, but just a bit over is another space and into this space the second piece must have fell. It has disappeared into our walls to who knows where, perhaps the Land of Oz.

I reset the first piece. I retrieve all our coats and rehang them. I put the other junk back in the closet. I close the closet doors. As far as I'm concerned the faucet fiasco is over.

If only the faucet had felt that way.