Category: Oversharing

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And Then All of a Sudden…

This happened:



I knew 2020 wasn't going to let us off unscathed…

Last Friday we noticed a steady drip of water from our water heater. This is an old house, and it was located outside in a metal lean-to as was custom of the era in this part of Phoenix.

We notified our landlords and they asked how much of an emergency it was. "Not a holiday weekend rate emergency, " I said. Our landlord said he'd come over (they live right next door) and take a look at it. The next day he said that he'd be replacing the unit with an "on-demand" water heater and would like to get started as soon as possible Sunday morning.

Well, Sunday morning arrived and amid pounding and sawing and a general cacophony, he was making progress. Around 3 pm I heard him yell, and before I could even get outside, his son came running over yelling, "Your roof is on fire! Get out NOW!"

Well apparently, our landlord was just finishing up the final weld on one of the water lines that was too near the roof overhang. It flashed and spread into an attic conflagration that melted one of the vents on the roof.

Ben and I got out safely with the dogs and our second most important possessions, our laptops. We watched as four fire trucks pulled up and disgorged their troops who swarmed into the house, hoses in hand. I knew we were in trouble when they started bringing things out into the yard. Thankfully they did. My third-most prized possessions: the new speakers I'd bought last summer, along with my turntable and amplifier were brought out still on the entertainment center, like they were being transported on a Dias.

The fate of everything else in the house remained unclear until we were allowed back inside several hours later. The firefighters had thoughtfully draped everything that looked important with enormous sheets of black plastic, protecting the remainder of our computing equipment and—as I only discovered today—the bookcase holding all my books and vinyl records. I didn't lift the veil too much for fear of disturbing the ceiling detritus that had fallen, but it appeared everything dry. (The thought of losing my collection was one of many things that contributed to me getting only about 3 hours of sleep last night.)

Needless to say, the house is trashed. We're spending a couple nights in a nearby hotel, and tomorrow the plan is to transfer to Extended Stay lodging.

The owner's insurance adjusters came by today and while they didn't write the whole house off as a loss (something that would've made our lives infinitely easier in the aftermath as we're discovering), they did point out that the entire roof would have to be replaced. And not just the shingles; the entire roof structure had to go, along with most of the interior plaster and drywall, to say nothing of the house wiring.

This was the result of an accident, albeit one that could've been avoided if our landlord simply chose to have the new water heater professionally installed. I don't blame him for this, but I blame him for the fact that we now have to move.

In some ways this is a blessing. While cleaning house Friday, I remarked that we—like many Americans—had just too much stuff—and the thought of moving absolutely turned my stomach.

But yet, here we are, and like others who find themselves in this situation, it soon becomes apparent how many of those amassed things are easily dismissed.

The one thing that has prevented the tears from flowing is my core philosophy that everything happens for a reason. As comfortable as it was, it was time to move on from that house; that area of town. Ben recently accepted a position in a school district in Casa Grande, a community about an hour's commute from our current location. We needed to move east to cut down on that commute. As for me, I'm going to be working from home for the foreseeable future, and if the time comes that I have to go back into the office, I have a (relatively) new ride and will be traveling northeast going in and southeast going home, a perfect commute with no sun in my eyes.

So yeah, life goes on. Changes will be made. And thanks given that we and the dogs are all alive and well.

 

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The First Time

Nearly half a century later I remember it as if it happened yesterday. Fourth grade, alone in my room as was often the case. Where was my mom? Probably in the kitchen. Where was my sister? Outside the in the back yard or watching television in the family room; details elusive and unimportant.

It had stood up on its own unbidden before; many times in fact. The first time I recall it happening I was only three or four years old, and scrambled to explain to my father why I was naked and sprawled out of the floor, rubbing my body against the rough carpet. "I was looking for something under the bed," was the remembered excuse. But this time it was different; it demanded attention and could not be ignored.

I slipped my pants off, climbed onto the bed and on all fours, straddling the fuzzy faux leopard-skin pillow that had adorned it for many years, started rubbing against it. I thought of the how the new P.E. coach's nipples prominently showed through his too-tight T-shirts and his chest hair poked out at the neckline. I thought about the man's bushy mustache and his fresh-out-of-the-Marines high-n-tight buzzcut. As I rhythmically rubbed against the pillow and thought of these things, it felt good. Too good. Suddenly my body was wracked with convulsions; I felt like I was going to piss. The pleasure centers in my brain exploded and I scrambled for my shorts, hoping to stem the flow long enough to get them back on and down the hall into the bathroom before everything was wet. But then it was over. No stream of urine; in fact, nothing at all.

Of course, that would soon change as the days progressed and that urge returned again and again. Quickly I realized that while the initial rush was similar to the feeling of emptying my bladder it was only because I'd had nothing else prior to compare it to; in actuality it very different. And when I realized I wasn't going to wet everything, I was actually able to enjoy the feeling.  The first time the milky fluid came spraying out—as I stood naked in front of the hall mirror rubbing the pillow against my crotch (where was my mother?)—I thought I'd broken something, yet it did nothing to prevent me from doing it again.

"Why did you take that pillow into the bathroom with you?" my mother eventually asked. "It smells. I want to throw it in the washer but I had to pee first," I'd respond.

Soon I discovered I could wrap my hand around it and achieve the same result, giving that poor pillow a much-needed respite from the washing machine.

One day I captured some of the milky fluid onto a glass slide and put it under the microscope I'd gotten for Christmas the year before. Slowly the little squiggling things came into focus, confirming what I'd been surreptitiously researching. Nothing was broken.

And so it began—and the Sears catalog was never looked at the same way again.