For Frying Out Loud (25 page)

April 2010

HOME IMPROVEMENT PORN

Home Improvement shows are like pornography. Watching them makes you do things you shouldn't do. Like tiling the bathroom floor.

“How difficult is this project?” I asked my handy spouse as we watched DIY porn on Saturday morning.

“It's easy.”

After 28 years you'd think I'd know better. I'm surprised nobody showed up to try and sell me the Brooklyn Bridge. Frankly, it would have cost less.

Since we already had the floor tiles, all we needed was concrete board to go under the tile. And grout, a trowel, a grout sponge, adhesive, concrete board screws, and an appointment to have my head examined.

They call it concrete board because it emits concrete dust that sticks to your clothing like powdered sugar. It's also called concrete board because two old dykes cannot lift a sheet of it into the car by themselves without developing sciatica.

Meanwhile back at the ranch house, Bonnie wanted to avoid crawling under the house to shut off the water. So she convinced me we'd just cut out the back of the under-sink cabinet to remove it without fooling with the water supply. Well, sawing a hole in the cabinet made a filthy mess but we got it out of the bathroom without incident. Sadly, it turned out that the turnoff valve on the toilet was broken, so removing the porcelain horse would have caused a geyser. See Bonnie run. See Bonnie slither under the house to turn the water off.

I married for better or worse, but not for carting a toilet through the house. It poured more liquid on my floor than visiting dogs. If I wanted to wash my hands I had to use ice cubes. See the consequences of watching porn?

Next came removal of the backsplash from the sink, half of which was the leaning tower of formica, having become
unglued over a decade ago. I became unglued when the remaining section, which must have been fastened with Gorilla Glue, was removed, taking a chunk of wall board with it. Great, now we have to repaint the room. It's amazing how the destruction phase of these projects goes awry so fast.

Back to Lowes for the part to fix the toilet cut-off so we can turn the water on again. By 3 p.m. we had the water fixed and one sheet of concrete board on the bathroom floor. By 4 p.m. we had screwed it in place. By 5 p.m. we had cocktails and called it a day.

DAY TWO OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT

Broke several drill bits on the concrete board. Back to Lowes. Second board screwed into place. Fay and Bonnie screwed because we are out of time. Must put project on hold for two days. The sink and toilet are in the hall, we have to clean up our master bathroom in case guests have to pee. The house is a construction site.

DAY FIVE OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT

Little details like Bonnie's employment supersede construction. Back to work on the floor now. After painstakingly trimming one tile to fit around where the toilet would be if it wasn't in the hall, we determine that everything is easy with the right tools – and we don't have them. We rent a tile cutter and race home, playing beat the clock to cut all the tiles before nightfall when the rented machine turns into a pumpkin or costs us another $44. We make it. Huzzah!

DAY SIX OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT

Great. A narrow slice of concrete board is sticking out past the tile, infringing on the space for the door sill. Gotta trim that concrete board. Did I mention concrete dust?

Bonnie took a jigsaw to the offending concrete board and blew a cloud of thick white fog up to the ceiling and back down into every crevice and onto every surface in the whole house.
We've got concrete dust in the dog food bowls, on the bedspreads, in the computer keyboards. We could scribble %&*% DIY in concrete dust on the tabletops. Auuggghhh!!!! Now we need a cleaning service.

Off to buy a sill to fit between bathroom and hall. Got a cheap metal one and it looked like crap next to the tiles. Back to Lowes yet again, where we lost our marbles and bought a black marble sill. That sucking sound was the ATM.

DAY SEVEN OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT

Bonnie mixed the adhesive and began meticulously setting tiles in place. With each subsequent tile the glue got thicker and thicker, setting up faster than she could possibly set tiles. Pretty soon she's tiling like the sorcerer's apprentice and cursing like a sailor trying to finish before her putty knife turns to the sword in the stone. She didn't make it. Out of usable glue, out of time. Toss bucket and embedded putty knife in trash.

TIME OUT

Here, the story detours. Project on hold for a quick trip out of town. Arrived back on Sunday night and by Monday morning both of us are struck down with world-class food poisoning. Beebe Hospital visit required. I will spare you the details but remind you that one of our two toilets was sitting useless in the hall. Timing is everything. In so many ways.

DAY SEVENTEEN OF THE ONE DAY PROJECT

We're grouting now, with a brand new putty knife. Decided it was silly to put back the old cabinet with the holes in the back for the water pipes so we bought a new, decorative cabinet with new hardware. While we're at it (it's the
while-your-at-its
that will kill you) we're looking at a new granite countertop and decorative sink because we have to hide the wall gouges where the old formica ripped off.

Ripped off, did we say? The new cabinet is in place but the drawers won't open because we got a lefty not a righty and
upon opening the drawers they hit the door jam. Can't move the cabinet the offending
one measly inch
because water pipes won't move. Call the plumber to move the pipes, begging him to hurry because company is coming in three days. Exercise the credit card.

DAY NINETEEN OF THE MANHATTAN PROJECT

Buy paint and new baseboards. Close the bathroom door to keep the dogs from exploring unfinished baseboard areas. Wait! The door won't close. Tiles are too high. To sand the door down we have to take it off its hinges.

Fay becomes unhinged. See Bonnie and Fay schlepping the toilet and sink back into the bathroom. See an expensive cleaning crew come get concrete dust off every tchotchke in the house.

Fay and Bonnie are now in rehab for their addiction to Do-It-Yourself projects. HGTV is porn. Pure and simple. I'm swearing off. Or am I just swearing?

May 2010

THANKS FOR THE MAMMARIES PRE-QUAKE SUNDAY

Boobquake. Did you hear about it? At first I thought it referred to the massive tsunami of GOP blather against Obama's latest legislation. But no, it meant actual boobs, as in mammaries. And it happened on Monday, April 26.

On the preceding day I was enjoying brunch with a gaggle of friends when somebody mentioned the upcoming Boobquake. Apparently I'd been under a rock and had so far missed the whole boob-ha-ha.

I grabbed my Blackberry and surfed. Sure enough, a Boobquake Facebook page told of a worldwide protest against an Iranian cleric's suggestion that immodestly dressed women cause earthquakes. He blames the women for causing lascivious thoughts from men, resulting in fornication and adultery, which, in turn, cause earthquakes.

Puleeeze. Joining the brain trust of Pat Robertson (lesbians caused Hurricane Katrina) and Fred Phelps (God hates Fags) we have Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi causing a Boobquake. Wow, his first name is a mouthful, and everyone knows that more than a mouthful is wasted, but I digress.

Sedighi, Teheran's Friday prayer leader, pissed off Purdue college student Jen McCreight, who put a Facebook page together urging women worldwide to satirize the cleric on the following Monday by revealing a little cleavage – or ankle, for the modest.

“Sedighi claims that not dressing modestly causes earthquakes,” said McCreight, “If so, we should be able to test this claim scientifically. Time for a Boobquake.” So she told her Facebook friends that on Monday, April 26th, she would wear her most cleavage-showing shirt and they should too, in order to have some fun with the hateful cleric.

Hmmmm. A scientific call to arms, or breasts as the case may be. Okay, I was locked and loaded. Frankly, I'm afraid we
were all a little loaded at brunch, having Mimosa'd our way through this perky conversation, some of us amply prepared for a seismic wave of breast activism and others fretting about lack of ammunition to get the job done. “Who gives a hooter?” we all agreed. We're in!

Richter Scales and bra sizes aside, the planned boobquake caught my imagination. And I was not alone. Twenty-four hours after it was first announced, 40,000 Facebook people (or 80,000 juggies, give or take) in dozens of countries had signed on for this most civil disobedience; a major magnitude of tectonic titties.

It made the papers, too. I loved the headlines “Vancouver protesters plan to shake beliefs with Boobquake,” “Cleric vs. Cleavage,” or NBC's “Boobquake lifts and separates political opinion.” The punny headlines went wild. By Sunday at 3 p.m.
New York
magazine reported that 120,000 women signed on to show cleavage, dress less modestly, and otherwise give the raspberries to the Imam.

Oh, the aftershocks! I tweeted and Facebooked my participation, and heard “Keep us abreast,” Do man boobs count?” (um…not sure) and my favorite “you work at home, so just the schnauzers will see your cleavage!”

No, I intended to hang out, if you'll excuse the expression at Walmart and the liquor store, too, busting out all over town. A gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do to combat these idiotic religious wing nuts trying to blame natural disasters on their idea of unnatural behavior. Did they blame the Icelandic volcano on their plumbers bending over under the sink??? I didn't think so. No, this is just your every day fundamentalist cleric misogyny.

MONDAY, A REAL BOOBQUAKE

Got up early to discover hundreds of thousands of women worldwide set to expose their breasts in varying degrees. Jen McCreight was online reminding everyone that this is not about baring all, but baring whatever you feel comfy baring.
She will be in a tank top. I donned my CAMP Rehoboth sweat shirt and made sure the zipper was down dangerously low over my bare skin.

Will this seismic boobie wave make the earth move under my feet? Wait a minute. In my world, attractive sights like this can make the earth move. Well, I guess if the earth moves for you in a good way, that's fine. Death and destruction as described by the Imam, not so much.

Oh no! By 8 a.m. FOX Noise reported an earthquake in Taiwan! Could the politically incorrect Imam be seismically correct? Luckily, Boobquake founder McCreight had previously posted “I know many earthquakes happen on a daily basis, so we're looking to see if Boobquake significantly increases the number or magnitude of earthquakes.” NBC reported that once the Boobquake is over, McCreight will be researching earthquake statistics to see if there actually was an uptick in seismic activity.

Well, here it is 4 p.m. on Monday and our planet has not yet been destroyed by this wanton display of womanity. And so far there has been little fallout seismic-wise. I've had no word on any other kind of fall-out, but needless to say, with a globe full of gals in low cut garments, flaunting their assets, somebody somewhere must have had a wardrobe malfunction. Hey, if a breast falls out in the forest and the Imam isn't there to see it, is he still stupid?

All I know is that on my drive-by at the bank, my promenade through Walmart's check-out line or my wicked sashay around the car to pump some gas, no fault lines erupted and Rehoboth didn't quake into the ocean. Thanks to the cold and damp weather, the only scientific data I can quantify is one pair of boobs making its, er, point to the silly, delusional Imam.

Enough. How long are we going to have to put up with hate-filled boobs like these?