American Teeth

Problem solved, I think, concerning the bad glass sizes. I realized that it was the corners that were giving me grief; I couldn’t grind down the welds there, but after some practice runs on scrap glass, I got the hang of trimming the corners of the glass, so just about all of them fit.

Two pieces were still a bit too big, so I tried cutting bigger corners…with dire consequences. One piece shattered before even attempting to install it, and the other led me on until I pushed it just a bit too much-a cinematic “screeatch” accompanied the crystal clear ribbon like crack that appeared instantaneously.

But all in all, a good day. Most of the windows are siliconed in place, and I’ll do the putty once everything is set, probably next week.

Back when I was welding in larkspur, there was a point where I started to feel frustrated; working with macho construction workers afforded me many fruitful stories with my fellow unmarried, latte sipping friends back in the Big City, but really, how many nasty burritos from the Roach Coach can a hard working wrangler stomach without having to run to the Scariest Outhouse in the World. There were tales of it being knocked over while someone was in it, of a tennis ball being thrown down the vent shaft while someone was in it, of it being moved by forklift while someone was in it…..I grew up with not one but two outhouses (!!!) and had never had a problem in either one, so I was happy to call it a day in the outhouse scene.

So it was that I had decided one day to find another job. One with a real flush toilet. After having put in six or seven years of restaurant work, washing dishes was out of the question. I liked the concept of construction, but construction sites were a drag. So during a lunch break from welding, I circled all the cabinet making jobs, went down to the pay phone, and started dialing. I figured I could improv my way through an interview, much as I did in getting the welding gig. I mean, how tough could it be making cabinets? I had cut my share of boards and 2×4s as a laborer, and I was a quick learner; I would be sure and tell them that-I’m a quick learner. Before landing the welding job, I had applied as grounds keeper at a cemetery. That interview must’ve lasted at least an hour, and I didn’t know squat about either grounds keeping or dead people. Yet, they seemed to be so impressed by how I was turning circles around their questions about the latest lawn-cutting tools that it dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. And that’s a long time in “cemetery years.”

So as far as I was concerned, this cabinet making thing was in the bag. The first place I called was a cabinet shop on Potrero Hill-a quick drive from my place in the Lower Haight. I wanted this job so badly, I could already smell the sawdust and white glue.

Ok, he needed to ask a few questions over the phone first, to get rid of the riff-raf. “I understand, go ahead.” “Alright-what are your tolerances?” “Oh, I work around all kinds of dangerous tools, nasty smells, loud grinding noises, and toxic chemicals, so I can tolerate almost anything.” Yes! I nailed it!

But wait….. what’s that sound of laughter and snickering on the other end? “Ah yeah, actually, that’s not what I meant. Don’t waste our or anyone else’s time until you learn what ‘tolerance’ means in wood-working. Bye.” Click.

Fast forward 20 years. I had diligently measured and re-measured the openings for our windows. I didn’t want to flub it and throw out my precious 200 kgs of glass. I wanted each piece to fit perfectly, with not a millimeter to spare. I wrote down each size on each opening, so I would know where the pieces went. The glass shop had lived up to its end, marking each piece and wrapping like-sized pieces up together.

So imagine my frustration when, while trial-sizing the pieces, nearly a quarter of them were just a tad too big. Well, not too big, but in measuring the openings, I hadn’t accounted for little imperfections in the metal, or weld beads in the corners that I couldn’t grind out.

I’ve learned since that fatal cabinet-making interview that “tolerance” means something like ‘how closely your measured cut can come to making the final joint with no extra space to spare.’

Now I can say I have zero tolerance.  Minus 1 millemeter. Plus a sledge hammer.

Our house is haunted.

It can easily be verified by the “scritch scritch” noises we keep hearing under the kitchen counter at night. Some sceptics might suggest mice, but answer this wise guys: If it’s mice, then why aren’t they going for all the gourmet organic food that we set on the four traps around the house? The traps that we freshen up at least once a week? So, it’s obviously not mice. No, it must be ghosts of construction workers past.

Bygone plumbers, reminding me of the ever-so-slight pressure drop in the boiler. Forgotten electricians, wondering what that “light switch to nowhere” that I installed near the landing is all about. Orphaned macons, waiting to hear why I changed the tiles in the bathroom at the last minute. Disgruntled sheet-rockers, upset at my disregard for the “every 60cm” spacing rule for the metal studs. Fallen iron-workers, dismayed at some of my over-head welds.

The spirits of all these workers have joined the Brotherhood of Keeping Kit Up All Night, and in concert are making those scritchy noises under the sink and fridge, near the stereo, and just next to the couch.

The Botherhood is so strong, that they’ve managed to bully a poor little grey house mouse into doing their dirty work, by having him run around at the foot of our bed just before bed-time, thoroughly freaking us out. One of these days, the Botherhood is going to slip up, and the innocent mouse will be the fall guy.

And none too soon.

UPDATE: We were woken up last night by a howling whine under the fridge. Inspecting the trap, we found a poor mouse had gotten his tail stuck in it, and was struggling to get out. Why couldn’t he have done the honorable thing and gone the whole hog, head first into the trap? No, he had to remind me that I was implicitly involved, and if I wanted him gone, I would have to play a bigger part than feeding him organic dates and range fed chicken on a lovey wooden tray made in france.

If I wanted the little nipper gone for good, The Ghosts of The Brotherhood instructed me, I must find an iron bar, and, well…..use it.

Let’s just say that last night I unwittingly received Tony Soprano’s hand-me-down union card.

After having worked in a French restaurant (well, an “english pub,” but in France) I managed to learn pretty much all the vocabulary needed to deal with French suppliers, administrators, and employees. I was proud, when at a party, I could throw out words like plongeur (dishwasher) casser (breaks) vaisselles (dishes) et (and) il est trop dramatique (he’s a drama queen) donc il est viré (so he’s fired) Then when I started teaching English, I actually learned even more words; some of them unmentionable on this family blog.

By the time I started doing DIY over here, I had already gotten to a comfortable level of French, so going to hardware stores wasn’t too difficult. Plus I had learned quite a bit of DIY vocab and know-how from French DIY forums such as cyberbricoleur.com. Evidently my French didn’t pass muster with the other forum posters there, as one simple mistake and you’re accused of being a troll. But that’s another story…..

Suffice it to say, I had learned enough about home repair jobs, that asking for help in a hardware store became an embarrassment for not me but the employees. Poor guys didn’t have sufficient training. The hunter became the hunted! So I had to find the “pro” shops, where I could get real, honest-to-goodness advice. Going to Weber to buy metal has been a pleasure in this regard. I could eat up the welding words, metal industry words, get a grip on prices, etc, and then in turn share this info with the occasional English student who happens to work in the metal industry.  It’s a win-win situation.

So imagine my shock when, going to into a glass shop for the first time to order glass for our hall way windows, I was stumped. “Bonjour, je voudrais trente quatre—” I would like thirty four what?! Morceaux? Pieces? Parts? Or maybe none of the above? Maybe thirty four fenetres? Vitres? Verres? Or some combination thereof? Trente quatres morceaux des verres? Pieces du vitres? Morcels of glass? Pieces of windows? Hell, I don’t even know if it’s masculin or feminin: du, des, de la……

Finally I showed the guy my list, pointed at it, and repeated what Agnes had taught me when I moved here ten (!) years ago: “Bonjour, je voudrais ca.” Wow, what an ego deflator. Set me back to “french for dummies.” Everything went fine though, and I was told the glass would be ready the following day. So returning with a small, rented moving van, I parked in front of the shop, paid the balance, and asked how I should carry it in the van. I was concerned about my 700 euro of glass breaking, and I thought that it would be a good idea to strap it to the seat with a seat belt and lots of duct tape. The guy said something that sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, so I tried to be a good student and pay attention, but to no avail. I did catch that he didn’t like my duct tape idea, told me to put it in the back, and finally offered to load it for me, but I wanted to confirm: “et ca va pas—-” It’s not going to what?! Briser? Cassez? Tombe en panne? Break? Break? or break?

Why do the French have so many words for “break” like “broken”? But when you’re tired and fed up with trying to talk to the glass guy, and want to take a rest from the stress, we have to resort to saying…..prendre un break?

A week like any other…or is it?
Got back from a very relaxing long week-end in the country, and started my normal work week on Tuesday. But somehow I found the time to continue on my stairs. By Friday, they were all but finished except for fin,ding the wood for the landing and some touch-up painting.

The second week was as tough as the first one. It started out alright; I had found a helper on Craigslist the week before, so I called him to see if he was available on Monday for a couple dump runs. Its no fun to unload stuff at the dump by yourself. And it’s grueling to load those heavy sacs by yourself, too. So, we worked quickly, finished by lunch, and treated ourselves to noodle soup in Chinatown. On my way home I decided I deserved a double scoop gelato, and the minute I got home I promptly passed out from a what Agnes calls a “sugar coma.” The rest of the day I was in a daze, so I pretended to work upstairs, but avoided heavy machinery.
Alright! Let’s cut to the chase!
Friday morning everything was in place for the stairs, ready to go. I lowered the first stringer down into the hole, straightened it out, and…..we had only 40cm at the bottom between the landing and the window. What happened?! Bad math? No option but to make the hole longer. More dust, more hammer-drilling, gravats, ugh.
But finally, around 8pm Friday: The first step! Yeah!!! Going away for the weekend, so hopefully next week I can finish it.

Imagine: Baby powder. Soft, gentle, soothing, pleasing smell.
Now imagine: Thunder clouds of Baby powder’s evil cousin. Layers of tiny grains of powder that seem to reappear as soon as you thought you’d vacuumed them up. You spend 24 hours trying in vain to run from these pesky-as-a-swarm-of-gnats clouds, mopping the floor every two hours, vacuuming, wiping down the walls, furniture, yourself. But the dust just keeps coming back, settling, then sticking to your shoulder as you rub against something. You don’t notice at first, and you become the carrier of this plague, bringing it back to a recently cleaned corner. Even as I type this, every key-stroke sends a little “puff” into the air into front of me, clouding my vision, making it impossibbble to ssee whaaat i;m tyuping. And, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, you start thinking: “is it me? How can I improve this situation? Is it the stairs? Are the stair gods angry because I opted to break walls instead? But I thought breaking walls was good? Didn’t The Gipper say so? Oh, but then his successor’s son said building walls were good? I’m so confused!” :NON! this is not a political blog!:
I have fans in the windows, theoretically extracting the dust, but it’s not enough. Tonight I’ve discovered a new technique; I’m bringing things to the shower and, a bit like Sarkozy and his water canons, rinsing everything that’s even slightly insoluble, including the bills for the the fans. And all my old Gipper VHS tapes.

No, stairs has taken a back seat to walls. And sacs des gravats. Gravats being construction debris, and sacs, well, sacks. I decided yesterday that my priority should be do as much demolition as possible while everything is stored in boxes and Agnes is away. But don’t worry, my darling stairs, I haven’t forgotten about you!

Some advice to our listeners. Don’t wait till the last minute to rent a truck or van, especially around the first of the month, when everyone is moving. You’ll be stuck figuring out what to do with 80-90 large sacs des gravats. Maybe you’ll have had the foresight to post a help wanted ad in craigslist for strong bodies to get the sacks downstairs and into the van, but if there’s no van? You can do what I did, and have them take the bags down to the big garbage area, and wait till a van becomes available.
But I’m simplifying the story. Here’s the full version:
Yes, I had called around at the last minute for moving vans (pick-up trucks are nearly non-existent in France) and the only one available was kind of flat-bed, which would have been perfect to fit all these sacks, but the public dump has just one restriction: no vehicle over 1.8 meters in height, which eliminates the flat-bed due to its bar over the cab, bringing it to 2.2 meters. I asked the rental guy over the phone if I could cut the bar and weld it back on; he was polite enough to laugh at my “joke,” only I wasn’t joking.
So now I’m going to National on Monday to physically measure their vans, and hopefully find one big enough to fit all the sacks in one dump run.

And this morning at 8:30 I had a craigslist guy come and help me take the bags down to the ground floor garbage area. This was the morning after a grueling day of breaking walls, chimneys and floors and putting most of the rubble into sacs, then meeting Todd at a bar and drinking beers till 3am, then taking a taxi back to his place in Vincennes and falling asleep on the floor of his 15 square meter apartment at 4am, knowing I had to get up four hours later to meet craigslist guy. The guy who also had been out drinking the night before; we were a pretty picture. But bless him, so full of youthful energy and strength. We got the bags down by 11am, and I let him go for the day. Then Todd decided to come over, and help out some. Free labor! We finished breaking the small chimney, and brought those bags down too. I managed to get the place cleaned up tonight, and while mopping all my dust off the stairs I bumped into the Brain Surgeon and his girlfriend, who very funny and joked about working on Labor Day, and making a lot of noise on a Holiday, which “should be treated like a Sunday.” But they were sweet, and said the crack hadn’t gotten any bigger. Peace in the kingdom.

Cracks, neighbors, noise: be damned! Shock and awe!
Anyway, no time to talk, gotta jump in the shower for the third time today. Going out to meet my friend Todd for a drink, then crash at his place. No way am I going to sleep here tonight. Pictures ARE worth a thousand words…..