The Junk Drawer

Last week my husband Dave and I called for a plumber to fix a problem in our powder room. The toilet had minor issues, but we worried somehow it would turn major and we’d have a flood on our hands. For the record, we specialize in flooding basements, not bathrooms.

Nice plumber man shows up at our house bright and early and gives us the good news that it’s not a major problem. It costs $300 to fix a minor problem. I can’t help but wonder how much a major problem would cost. I’m clearly in the wrong business.

So he gets to work on our toilet and after about ten minutes realizes he needs more tools for the job and leaves to grab something out of his truck.

Because cats have a sense of humor, my cat Shadow, the one with occasional intestinal issues, decides now would be the right time to have some fun with everybody.

She got up off the couch, walked past my feet and stopped. And then she went pfffftttt. I thought "Oh, Shadow. No. Not today. Not now. We have company!" Well, plumber company. But still, company.

When Shadow passes gas, you know it instantly. She can pollute a whole room quicker than you can say "Where’s my gas mask?"

In all fairness, we were well-warned of her Silent But Deadly propensities by the foster parent who cared for her before we adopted her. The day we picked her up we were given one warning before we put her in the car.

"Shadow sometimes poops when she’s nervous. She doesn’t like cars much."

We thought how funny this was until Shadow let us know just how nervous she was only two miles out from the foster mom’s house. We were still twenty miles from home when it happened.

"Oh. My. God. She pooped. What are we going to do? Open a window! No! Don’t do that! It circulates up front! Air! I need air!!!"

We figured that the lesser of two evils was, believe it or not, to keep the windows closed. So now we were only 90% sure one of us would vomit. And then we hit construction.

We quickly pulled over and I tried to remove the offending deposit, but Shadow freaked out so bad in the carrier, I couldn’t get near it. So we were left with the poop and left with the gag-inducing odor.

The smell in the car for the entire ride home was criminally bad. It would have smelled sweeter if we had worn fully-loaded diapers on our heads and then submerged ourselves in a vat of sewage. The girl has a problem.

So back to the pfffftttt. After Shadow dropped the grenade and pulled the pin, she walked right into the powder room and began inspecting the plumber’s work so far. It almost didn’t matter that she walked in there with the cloud following her. The whole downstairs area was already a hot zone.

The one thing that came to mind as I pinched my nose was "What will the plumber think when he comes back into the house? He’s going to think it was me!"

When he arrived back to the work area, I looked up and said "Brian? It’s Brian, right?"

"Yeah."

"Um, that … um… smell you’re smelling? I have to apologize for my cat. She did it. I’m terribly sorry. You have to work in that small space and it’s horrible. I’m really sorry."

He looked at me point blank and said "I’m a plumber. You think I haven’t smelled anything worse than that? Don’t worry, I can take it."

I could have been no happier to write a check for $300 after forcing a complete stranger to stick his head near my toilet and smell my cat’s ass for the rest of the job. Plumbers are worth their weight in gold.

As for Shadow, she got a bowl of Beano for dinner and I may make her wear a diaper the next time we have visitors.

Last week I wrote about my superhero powers, which include the ability to hear sounds that no one else can hear.

My pal Jeff, over at View From the Cloud, wrote me to report that he also has some trouble with hearing noises that bother no one else. He suggested we may need a support group. Since it’s impractical for us to meet, what with Jeff in Minnesota and me in Pennsylvania, we’ve agreed to hold a meeting of sorts in our respective blogs. You, too, can join the group. Membership instructions follow.

But first, this is the part where you stand up, state your name, and announce all your problems to complete and total strangers. Let us begin.

Hi, my name is Kathy. Here are all the sounds that make my ears bleed.

Clashing radio stations — It’s one or the other, people. There is plenty of static in my head already. I don’t need Rush Limbaugh duking it out with the weather report.

Shiny, happy whistling people — I know I’m going to hell for this, but when I hear someone whistling, I want to shove a fistful of crackers in their mouths and see just how much they can whistle then.

Computer fans – I can hear the slightest fan noise in any make or model PC. I can also hear my external hard drive "breathing." I want to snuff it out, but I need it to, you know, backup my data. And so I allow it to live.

Sitar music or Japanese singing — Kill me. Kill me now.

Squeaky doors — None of my officemates were bothered by the squeak emitted by our office front door, although they did thank me after I blasted the door hinges with a can of WD-40. Seems they didn’t realize how loud it was until I silenced it. See, I’m not entirely crazy. Only partially.

TVs or radios playing in doctor’s offices — Last November I threw my back out and saw a chiropractor a couple times a week in December. All his patient rooms were outfitted with radios tuned to a station that played nothing but Christmas music. The day I had to listen to the Chipmunk song was the day I decided to delay the rest of my visits until January.

Leaf blowers — The only reason I don’t run over the guys who have gas-powered blowers strapped to their backs is because they must be living their own little hell. They are, after all, walking explosives.

Turn signals — I don’t let my husband put them on until he’s just about to make the turn. I don’t know how he puts up with me, and I’m sure if you’re a regular reader to my blog, you wonder the same thing. The man is a saint. Yeah, St. David, Patron Saint of Long-Suffering Husbands.

My neighbor with the RV — Every Sunday when he and his wife return from a trip, it takes him 15 minutes to back it into his too-small-for-an-RV driveway. Because it’s attached to a diesel-powered behemoth of a truck, I have to listen to it shake, rattle and roll as he backs it in while his wife screams at him "A little to the left, a little to the right!"

This concludes today’s meeting.

If you would like to join

our support group, check out Jeff’s post of sounds that annoy him. All you have to do is leave a comment on either of our blogs with one or more noises that drive you nuts and you’re automatically a member!

Meetings will be held on Wednesday evenings in a soundproof booth.

Addendum: The results of our first meeting are posted here.

For 51 weeks out of the year, I pay zero attention to sports. It’s only during the World Series that I even realize sports exist. Because I’m living in a sports-free vacuum most of the year, I was surprised to learn about the new rule that evidently all ball players are required to follow.

They must eject a half-gallon of spit on the field every game.

What I thought was going to be fun to watch on our new HDTV turned into a disgusting salivary waterworks display that I could not ignore and that ruined me for sports for even that one measly week I let myself go.

Every other minute, cameramen zoomed in on one or more players shooting spitwads on the field. And then there’s the manager for the Colorado Rockies, who was chewing a wad of gum the size of a grapefruit and spitting out long, thick, stringy wads that could fill up a shot glass.

What. Is. With. The. Spitting????

After a few days of this, I happened to mention this ickiness to my Dad, an avid sports fan. He understood how I could be so disgusted, but quickly informed me that "Baseball is a spittin’ game." Yeah, Dad, but why?

He shared our conversation with my Mom, who then sent me a clipping from her local paper, The Express Times, with a note that read "Kath, Somebody else agrees. Mom."

She sent me a letter to the editor, written by a woman who is as appalled as I am.

All things being relative, this letter will fall under the category of frivolous. However, I am serious. My interests in and knowledge of sports are limited. I really enjoy the NBA games and watch baseball during playoffs and the World Series.

Here’s my question: What is the connection or reason behind baseball players, and on up to managers, and spitting? The more you notice it, the more you can’t help but notice it. It is a revolting, disgusting habit.

The other night I watched a rookie pitcher for about 10 minutes. He spit nonstop. I gave up watching. Also, what are they all chewing nonstop? Is it gum or tobacco wads or what? These habits really take away from the pleasure of the game.

In what other setting in polite company would they be tolerated?

Shirley Ann Korth
Phillipsburg, NJ

I’d like to meet that woman. She understands that baseball and spitting need not go hand-in-hand. At some point, it takes over the game and all you’re doing is waiting for the next shot of someone dumping their saliva all over the place.

During Game 6, I even took pictures of one particularly lively spit. I don’t know who the player is, but I have to admire his method. His spit sprayed in no less than twenty directions. Kudos. I guess.

I’m not sure I’ll be watching the World Series of Spitting next year. I might be better off listening to it on the radio. At least that way, I won’t get wet.

Always on the lookout for offbeat blogs, I stumbled onto one that pays tribute to the very best of the worst mailboxes. Yes, mailboxes. Check out UglyMailbox and thank God you don’t live in those neighborhoods.

While out and about today, Dave managed to catch a glimmer of a fairly hideous one that I could submit to the site. I’m not sure it’ll make the grade, but we think it scores pretty high on the ugly scale. I’ve never seen a mailbox with fish hooks on it, or eyes, for that matter. Truly awful.

One of life’s greatest indulgences is flying first-class. I had the opportunity to do so in 2002 when my husband Dave and his brother Dan got the idea in their heads that we should leave a freezing cold November in Pennsylvania and take a trip to Las Vegas and splurge by flying there in style.

Here’s how we were punished for wanting to live a little.

If you have never flown first-class, you absolutely must try it once before you die. The entire experience is a ridiculous display of lavishness that only a $1,000 ticket can buy. From the time you set foot on the plane, people are waiting on you. The ratio of flight attendants to passengers is about 1:3. Back in coach, it’s 1:3,000,000. There is a reason the tickets cost so much. You’ve bought yourself a servant.

Seated comfortably in cushy, wide leather seats, you can really kick back, breathe easy, and relax. Since first-classers are seated before anyone else, you have the pleasure of watching all the coach- and business-class people salivate over your seats while they walk back to Sardine Land. You know what they’re thinking as they pass you. "I hate you and if the plane crashes, you’ll die first."

But we soldier on and ignore the stares, grunts and eye rolls from the less fortunate passengers, and prepare to be waited on by one of the five attendants dedicated to us. The first thing they do is take your coats and hang them up in a closet so that you are completely unencumbered by your travel paraphernalia. Next, they put your bags in the overhead compartments for you so that you are not inconvenienced by common folk duties. Up next, real pillows and real blankets. You can put your seat back just about all the way without disturbing the person behind you.

Were we not flying at ten thousand feet and had a remote control for the TVs in the seats ahead of us, we would have thought we were laying on our couches at home in our living rooms. And even there, you don’t get someone asking you every ten minutes if you’re comfortable enough and whether you need anything. They ask you all the time if you’re cozy and how they can make your trip more enjoyable.

Once we’re in the air awhile, we are served the first course of our meals. Yeah, first course. There are more to come. We’re given a selection of cheese and fruit, served on a restaurant-quality plate with real silverware. There is no plastic in first-class.

After we finish our fresh fruit and cheese, we are served our second course of chicken cordon bleu with rice pilaf and warm bread. Again, served on real dinnerware with real knives and forks. The suckers in the back are handed sandwiches with meat-of-questionable-origin in plastic wrap, and if they’re lucky, a pack of crackers. We finish up dinner with an assortment of cheesecake, mousse and more fresh fruit. So this is how the other half lives…..

It’s impossible to be too full on a plane unless you’ve brought your own meals, but here we are, fat and happy in first-class. All this eating has made us a little tired. Propping up our pillows and pulling our blankies up to our chins, we lie back in our virtual beds and take cat naps. You can’t do that in coach unless you take coma-inducing drugs that make you forget exactly where you are — seated millimeters next to smelly, irritated people who, if given the chance, would kick you out in the aisle if it meant they could have five more inches of space.

After a thoroughly enjoyable flight that felt much shorter than it was, we deplane and begin our adventures in The City That Never Sleeps. For the first few days, we win and lose some money here and there. We vary our time between soaking up some sun, hitting the casinos and the pool and strolling up and down the strip taking it all in.

We’re having a great time until …..

Dan hails us a cab from one resort to get us back to our home base and we all pile in. The cab driver is chit-chatting with us about where we’re from and where we’re staying and whether we’re enjoying ourselves. Then he drops the bomb.

He mentions how there are hundreds of travelers scrambling to get flights back home because they just got the news that National Airlines, our airline, has just filed for bankruptcy and they’ve canceled all of their flights.

All together now….. Say WHAT?!?!?!

We go from zero to depressed in two seconds flat. This news means that we’re going to have to make other flight arrangements to get us back home and now we’re not even sure we can leave when we planned. Once back at our hotel, Dan makes a flurry of phone calls and secures us a flight on We’re Not Flying First Class Anymore Airlines. Because we had to take what we could get, we can’t fly back in luxury. We had been given keys to the Emerald City and now they want them back.

After Dave picked me up off the floor, I came to and got all the details. First, there’s the no first-class thing ("Stop telling me that!!!"). Then there’s the problem of seating. We can’t get seats together. Lastly, we have to cut the trip short and leave that night on the red-eye. It is called the red-eye for a reason. If you have been up since 5AM and have to leave town at 11PM, then take a six hour flight, you will have red, bleary, Marty Feldman eyes that will scare small children when it’s all over.

After I recover from this news, I try to make the best of our last day in Vegas by sinking a few bucks into a slot machine. Maybe if I pray hard enough, a first-class ticket will fall out. Later in the day, we sulk as we pack our things and prepare for what would become the worst flight ever.

Just a few days ago, we were secretly laughing at the people who filed past us on their way to coach. Now we were those people, cursing under our breath at the people who were going to get nice soft pillows and blankets, and delicious food served on real dinnerware. All we could think as we walked past them was "If the plane crashes, you’ll die first."

As we approach Sardine Land, we get into position for our separate seating arrangement. Dan got a spot next to a window in one row, while Dave sat in the row behind him in a middle seat. I wind up in the same row, but on the other side of the plane.

I am not a good flier. It is almost a requirement that I be allowed to dig my nails into Dave’s thigh during take-off, the part of the flight that makes me the most anxious. I doubt now that I’ll be able to dig my nails into the thigh of Random Traveler next to me, and now I don’t want to because I find out soon enough that my seatmate is a crazy person.

He is wearing a sleeveless camouflage T-shirt, camouflage pants, combat boots and has no reading material or other things to keep himself occupied for six hours. He begins talking to me immediately about where he’s from and how his girlfriend just dumped him. Sure, take away my first-class status and sit me next to Psychotic Nothing-to-Lose Guy.

Dan and Dave have their own little traumas over on the other side of the plane. Dan has the misfortune of getting seated next to a very large man whose body is spilling over the edges of his seat. I later learn that Dan was just about to reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of hundreds to make an offer to ANY OTHER PASSENGER to give up their seat so he doesn’t have to take the seat with half another person in it. But the lights go dim and he won’t be able to get anyone’s attention.

So he sits down in the little room he has left and curses National Airlines for hitting the skids. One of the only ways that Dan can get enough room is if he holds and bends his left arm over his head and scoots over so that he’s plastered to the wall. Dave is seated directly behind Very Large Man. I cannot count the ways that this will make for a bad flight.

In the air for a few hours now, I reflect on the fact that we’ve all been awake for over twenty hours now and are beginning to get Marty Feldman eyes. At some point, I glance out the window past Nothing-to-Lose Guy and see the sun coming up on the horizon. I’m in such a no-sleep stupor that I forget where I am for a minute. Am I dead?

I glance over at Dan and Dave and notice the interesting contortions they’ve been forced into because of Very Large Man. Dan is still stuck with his arm over his head. I can’t tell if he’s sleeping, but if he is, when he wakes up he will probably not realize that the arm is his own and will come out swinging.

Very Large Man has, of course, reclined his chair and appears to be resting comfortably. With the reclined chair four inches from his head, Dave decided to make the most of things by planting his forehead into the back of the seat and sleeping on his face.

When I see these twisted configurations and consider that neither of them are good travelers to begin with, I laugh inappropriately loudly, which unfortunately wakes up Nothing-to-Lose Guy. I look at him and explain that we flew to Vegas first-class and I’m supposed to be up there with all the lucky people and instead I’m sitting here! He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to thinking of all the ways he can get revenge on the girl who dumped him.

Another hour in flight, I’m counting down the minutes until I can get on the ground, get in a car and get in my bed. All told, by the time we fell asleep at home, we’d been up for 27 hours. We looked like we felt and it took two days before we got our normal eyes back.

The lesson of the story is that if you do manage to fly first-class, check out the financial situation of your airline and make sure they’re solvent. We were reimbursed the cost of the return ticket, but it hardly mattered. I’m left wishing I’d never flown first-class.

Because having it ripped out from under you is worse than not having had it at all.