Rusty Pipe Replacement in Eight Easy Steps

Only the foolhardy or the brave attempt their own plumbing. I firmly fit into the foolhardy category. However, having successfully completed my own plumbing project, I feel imminently qualified to tell everyone else a step-by-step process for switching rusting, cast iron pipes for PVC pipes.

The first step is to ponder the problem. Don't look at the pipes. Don't read any DIY material. Simply ponder it. The second step is to run cold water. Then run the hot water. If you're lucky, the pipe fairies have flown through and declogged it for you. Step three involves testing every flashlight you own to find a single working one. Once an adequate -- and working one -- has been found, you analyze the pipes in question.

I'm guessing that my house had been modified or added on to four or five times before my family acquired it. Originally, it was what you called a "shotgun" house. (I still refer to it as a "shotgun" house, but for different reasons!) Consequently, the pipes under the house look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. To analyze my pipes, I had to crawl through a veritable maze of tubes, pipes, duct work, dirt and spider's homes to find the offending pipe.

For the fourth step, get out pen/pencil and paper and sketch out the problem. Once sketched, turn the paper in every conceivable direction. It looks smart and makes your spouse think you're being productive. Step five consists of visiting your brother-in-law for a saw, a neighbor for pipe prep and cement, the hardware store for supplies and the library for a book on how to replace rusted pipes. For step six, line up all tools and equipment for a visual inspection of all items necessary. Be sure the saw is charged and the tools are in order from smallest to largest and have a nice shine. Step seven will have you meditating and mentally prepping yourself for the task ahead.

Step eight is the most crucial. It involves a brutally honest spouse telling you to quit piddling and get on it! That's when you get your butt under the house for several hours and fix the pipe, only to discover that there was a massive clog in the wall pipes behind the sink which will only take 45 minutes at most to clear. And, voila! You've fixed your pipes.

Dog Training and Trick Stage Has Been Reached

It hasn't been quite a month since our newest acquisition of fuzzy, black dog number three. But, in the short time Bob Barker has been with us, the four-legged contingency in our humble abode seems to be adapting quite well. In fact, Bob is taking to training very well.

Lilly has taught Bob that if he flops over on his side when I try to get him, he's much harder to pick up. Ace has successfully shown him that my lap is an open invitation any time he wants attention. Bob has even tapped into his genetic pool bag of tricks by staring at me with those doleful, brown, spaniel eyes. Bob's even trained my son. When I get those looks, my son -- the voice of oppressed pets everywhere, will chime in with "don't you wuv me Phiwup? I wouldn't have to stawe at ya like dis if ya'd onwy feed me more often." I'd like to see Victoria Stillwell or Cesar Milan against the indomitable duo that is my son and his dog.

Don't get me wrong, though. Bob Barker is not stupid. He's learned some other interesting tricks as well. As a howler, he can harmonize with either Ace's or Lilly's barking. Soon, he'll have all three of them harmonizing together. Bob's also learned how to use the bathroom in the yard, as opposed to the kitchen, or bathroom, or living room, or... You know. He learned that if he spreads his legs apart, he's a lot harder to get into his kennel at night.

Best, or worst of all, he seems to have figured me out some. When my wife and son aren't around, Bob will sit a short distance away and watch me. Then he'll creep really slowly up to me (as if stalking prey?). He'll keep his eyes on me and we'll watch each other. Then Bob will put his head on my leg and give me that doleful look. How can I not scratch him behind the ears when he acts and looks so cute at me like that?

Fuzzy Black Dogs Take Over

Don't let the cuteness fool you...

The fuzzy, black dog count in my little house has grown. In addition to Ace (the Jack Russell, schnauzer and poodle mix on the left at top) and Lilly (the schnauzer, yorkie mix which people like to shorten to schnorkie--on the right at top), we now have Bob, who for all practical appearances seems to be an American Water Spaniel. Unfortunately, Bob (who has really been named Bob Barker) seems to have created friction in out little household as to how we should proceed.

A friend of mine found him and another spaniel running around by the side of a road. Neither dog had a collar, so she did what she always does. Having an overly large heart and a soft spot for stray dogs, she managed to subdue the dogs and bring them home. She is currently trying to find a good home for only one dog. And therein lies the problem.

My theory contends that Bob was abused. His behavior seems to verify this theory. My theory also states that we, my family, are but a mere halfway house -- half way between a rough, rotten life and a new happy one with a family to love him. My solution is simply to find a happy home for the adorable little pup.

My son also has a theory. His theory states that when the dogs outnumber the family members, then we have a serious problem. Unfortunately, according to his theory, we don't have a problem yet since Bob puts the number of animals even with the number of humans. If you've ever tried reasoning with a teenager, you'll find it's easier to hit your head against a wall.

My wife has developed her own theory which can be summed up in four simple words -- &%*! out of luck! She says that we are just fuzzy, black dog magnets. She's also noted that our teenager and Bob have, in less than 24 hours, become inseperable. And it's becoming obvious when they have been seperated as a low, mournful howl begins echoing through the house...

One Turkey Sandwich, Please, But Hold the Glove

Accidents and mishaps just happen to me. It's not through any fault of my own, though. I'm not clumsy and I certainly don't go looking for trouble, though I did when I was much younger. Trouble is like a long, lost puppy dog that follows me around and appears when I least expect it.

Not too long ago, I ordered a Sierra Turkey at a popular sandwich franchise. I got more than I bargained for -- a Sierra Turkey & Preparation Glove Sandwich. The employees were super nice and got me a new sandwich, sans glove. At a biscuit franchise drive through, my wife and I got sweet teas. The only difference between them was that mine had a soft drink nozzle and soap in it. And then there was the killer food processor. Nine stitches and one reattached finger later, I still use kitchen knives for all my cooking needs.

Nothing, however, compared with the half of the modular home being transported that hit me. It was not long after I got married and just got a new job when it happened.

I sang The Clash songs as I blissfully drove myself to work in my truck. I was on that section of Hwy 220 in Greensboro with all the concrete bridges that stretch over the highway. To this day, I've put off the philosophical question of whether the house half that hit me was too tall, or the bridge it was being driven under was too short. Whichever it was, the two collided.

While I didn't see the actual collision, I did happen to see the effects it caused. I was right beside the house half and witnessed about 10 feet of the main beam land on my windshield. In slow motion, it bounced off my windshield and snapped the sideview mirror off the truck. I glanced in the rearview mirror to track its continual slow motion bouncing along the highway. I really freaked out when it started snowing. It seemed to take my brain hours to register that it was August and that the "snow" was insulation pouring out of the walls of the house half.

Now I'm taking these law classes at Guilford College. The classes are very informative and I'm learning a lot. Mostly, I'm learning that had I been smarter in the past, I could be a very rich person by now.

My Serious Side Emerges, But Only Momentarily

Contrary to popular belief, I do have a serious side. It comes out from time to time. Sometimes it even comes out in my writing. In fact, about this time 16 years ago, I wrote a poem for my best friend and girlfriend, who, not coincidentally, was also my fiancee. It was supposed to have been a Valentine's Day gift, but it took longer than I expected to iron the kinks out, so to speak.

It was a Shakespearean-style sonnet, adhering tightly to the rhyme scheme and theme of Shakespeare's impressive collection of love sonnets. I ended up giving it to her closer to our wedding date, which, luckily enough, was early enough for my wife-to-be to request it be put on the back of our wedding program.

God has a sense of humor. Sometimes you have to look for it and sometimes it's obvious. It was obvious to me when, at some point during the day of my wedding, one of my cousins sought me out.
"Phillip," he said, holding the program, "where did you get this poem?"
"Me," was my only answer.
"No," he continued. "I mean, what poet wrote it? Where did you get it?"
"Me," I said again. "I wrote it."
I got no further comments from him. He just looked at me a moment and then turned and walked off. I still smile when I think about it since I don't think he believed me. But I am flattered that he thought some great poet wrote it. Me.

I meant to post it for my wife for Valentine's Day (yesterday!!). However, life got in the way and kept me busy. Luckily, I haven't forgotten, so here it is. I love you honey. Happy Valentine's Day.

In Autumn days the wind grows strong
And the earth gets hard and cold,
The springtime warmth will thaw the throngs
Of flowers so bright and bold;
What chance does that which lives
Against such changing weather
Its life it ultimately gives
For nothing will go on forever.
But if your warmth and your love
Were to crush beneath such a pressure
My life would surely go on, but above
And beyond any earthly pleasure.
Your personal changes will always affect me,
But your love is my sole stability.

The Battle of Yorktown, Revisited

My son and I sometimes have interesting bouts of "what ifs." Most of the time they are funny and they are always interesting. This one, in particular, is one of my favorites. What if they had cell phones right at the end of the Revolutionary War? While I added a bit, this is the text conversation we came up with:
The date is 1781...
LCCORN: OMG! We lost!
KGIII: wat's omg. wht havew e lost.? Whhois ths?
LCCORN: Lord Charles Cornwallis. The commander of your forces, King George.
KGIII: Ths isnot a fnny jok e.
LCCORN: No joke, sire. Please give the phone to that 15yo errand boy, my king.
KGIII: Where are you exactly?
LCCORN: That's better. Yorktown, Virgina, my king.
KGIII: Where?! And where's that rescue fleet? Should be there any moment.
LCCORN: The colonies, sire. The French drove them off.
KGIII: The French? Against the English Navy? We will address your humor upon your return, lccorn!
KGIII: Sit tight. The French. Hah. My navy will be right there.
LCCORN: We're surrounded, sire. We're trapped. It is over.
KGIII: Pishposh! Let me talk to General Howe.
LCCORN: Quit. 3 years ago. Remember?
KGIII: How about General Clinton?!
LCCORN: He's in New York, my king.
KGIII: Where?!
LCCORN: Up north, far away from me, sire.
KGIII: Sit tight, you wimp. Trapped by a ragtag army! Hah!
KGIII: Getting text from navy now. Stay in touch.
RYLNAVY: My king. We're back in New York. The French. I can explain...

Super Bowl Turns Out to be a Battle of Sorts

Another Super Bowl has come and gone. Given these confusing times, it might be necessary to give an honest recap of the entire fracas. Otherwise, there may be many people who don't understand what really happened on the evening of Sunday, February 6.

Two rivaling factions came together on a really large grassy field located in Dallas, Texas. It's unknown what the two factions were fighting over, exactly. However, they attempted to settle it by throwing balls and by slamming into each other repeatedly. Ironically, the whole soiree started out peacefully enough with a gentleman in a striped prison outfit throwing coins. Only the most civil members of each group were allowed to attend this. Due to the television volume, or the lack thereof, the coin toss determined that there would be a battle of sorts.

The thieves of Pittsburgh... Correction -- the steelworkers of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, initially kicked the ball at the packagers of Green Bay, Wisconsin. After the steelworkers kicked the ball, two relatively small groups of each faction ran at each other toward the middle of the large field. During the first half of the fracas, several of the packagers were maimed or injured, or maimed and injured, gave up and simply left thegame. The packagers also caught balls aimed at the steelworkers during the first half. When that happened, confusion reigned on the field and members of both factions would reverse directions and seemed unsure of what to do.

At the conclusion of the first half, a light show ensued. Again, due to the lack of volume, it appeared a group called the Black Eyed Peas was singing up a storm. They certainly blinked up a storm, creating the effect of stunning the packagers from Green Bay, Wisconsin. This was evidenced by the slightly lackluster performance of beating up on the steelworkers from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

In the end, the packagers showed what a close-knit group they were by all coming together for a massive group hug. Even some of the injured ones hobbled into the hug. Meanwhile, there was an organized effort to fill the air with millions of little pieces of paper whose purpose was simple; to provide ample cover so the striped prisoners could make their escape. The point to all this? Well, it doesn't seem there was any point to it. But it looked like a good time was had by all.