An Update on our Plumbing Problems

A quick update on our internet/cable/hot water dilemma.

When last I left you all, our shomer shabbos, Toronto-born plumber was banging on our very ancient hot water heater in an attempt to repair damage caused by the installer from Telecom B. We were forced by our condo building into making the switch from Telecom A (which, for the record, had NEVER damaged our hot water heater) to Telecom B and in the process of hooking us up, the Cutie Techie knocked something loose from our hot water heater that seems to have been a holdover from the Reagan era. My hero the Jewish plumber was able to provide us with a fix that cost us $350.00 (an emergency plumbing call is not cheap) which I seriously considered billing to either our condo board or to Telecom B. I was talked out of that maneuver by my dad, who as a member of the condo board, (insert Seinfeld reference here) assured me that I might as well cover myself in honey and throw myself into the bear exhibit at the zoo.

All seemed to be functioning fine until this morning when I noticed that the hot water coming out of the tap in the kitchen was rather tepid. The Husband, always one to leap in and solve my problems, told me to just let the water run longer. Thanks, dearest. I'll remember you to the bears. The final straw came when my morning shower was about the temperature of warm saliva. The Husband went to check on the water heater and sure enough, it was stone cold. The circuit breakers had been tripped, so he reset them and while the water heater started up again, it was only temporary. He opened the unit up to discover that all of the insulation that covered the wiring was drenched like a toddler's diaper. While The Husband is a trained electrical engineer, this fix was beyond his abilities. Another call to our Hero Jewish Plumber was in order.

After a three-minute conversation, Jewish Plumber tells us not to throw good money after bad on a dying appliance. He knows exactly the unit we require and if it is in stock, he can have it installed tomorrow morning for the bargain basement, post-Chanukah special price of...wait for it...$1800.00!A few calls later and we are now eagerly awaiting his arrival tomorrow morning. (As an aside, I should say that this kind of service amongst tradespeople down here in South Florida is highly unusual. It was more likely that I actually would have followed through with the honey/bear thing than get a plumber and a new water heater here on twenty-four hours notice. On that count, we are very fortunate and I am seriously considering submitting this man's name for canonization.) The only real good news to come from all of this is that we caught the leak right away and there was no other damage done.

So....by the time this whole mess is finished, we will have spent $2150.00 in order to have our cable company switched over to Telecom B. I figure that the yearly savings from this switch will amount to about fifty bucks a year on our cable bill, but it will take about 43 years before we recoup our investment from the installation.

Explain to me again why this was a good idea!

Internet or Hot Water? Which would you choose?

If you had the option, would you trade a questionably cheaper and marginally better internet/cable TV service straight up for functioning hot water in your home?

I ask because it seems as if that is the Hobson's Choice we have been faced with all day today. 

This ridiculous situation, that we are STILL experiencing even as I type this, has its roots beginning last March when a few very angry unit owners in our Southern Home were wholly dissatisfied with the telecom provider in our building. Using some anecdotal evidence and a few miserable encounters with Telecom A as the basis for their arguments, these angry Floridians and Snowbirds managed to convince the condo board to investigate switching to Telecom B. After some wheeling and constructive horse trading, the deal was struck to move the entire condo building over to Telecom B. Needless to say that when a few dollars are at stake and the opportunity to stick it to an unattentive and nasty Telecom A is in the offing, a certain demographic of condo owners/board members jumped at the opportunity to endorse the switch.

Of course, not everybody in the building was attentive or even aware of the impending change. Despite countless emails, phone blasts, flyers, and in-person communication, there were and still are many in this building who have not signed up with Telecom B, even though the full impact of the switch-over will be felt in the early days of January. In other words, if you haven't booked your appointment with Telecom B by now, the chances are you may be relying on a dial-up internet and analog television in 2018. I wonder how many of us still have to physically pull our ample asses out of a chair in order to change the channels? And without internet, one can't even Google those statistics.

I was hard-pressed to find ANYBODY in this building who could explain what the shift from A to B would mean to me the consumer. 

"What channels would we be receiving?" 

"The channels will be great", I was promised." 

"Are there channels that will be disappearing?"

"The channels will be great", I was promised.

"Will our internet speed be better?"

"The internet will be great", I was promised.

"Will we still be able to access On-Demand?"

"The channels will be great", I was promised.

"But....you will be saving a lot of money."

"How much?" I asked.

"So much", I was promised.

Needless to say, The Husband and I were extremely skeptical mostly because we have dealt with too many telecoms both at home in Canada and here in Trumplandia before, and they are all equally horrible. So, we both have an "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" mentality when it comes to those magicians who deign to keep us internet-enabled.

After a balagan of a sign-up process that saw dozens of seniors convinced that stormtroopers were coming in to confiscate their televisions and led many to believe that they weren't going to be equipped with HD television and would be returning to the three channel universe of the 1980s, we were given this morning between 8:30am-12:30pm as our designated change-over time. Telecom B's technicians swarmed the building today in a vain attempt to prove that they are indeed better than their heated rivals over at Telecom A.

Our cute-assed techie did indeed arrive within the allotted time and he did indeed seem to know exactly what was necessary in order to complete our transmutation. And then....the fun began.

Our wiring is accessed via a box just above our very ancient, but still serviceable hot water heater. In order to get our internet/cable functioning, Cutie Techie needed to work in that box. All of a sudden, The Husband and I heard a squeal coming from Cutie Techie's general vicinity. 

"Umm....I think you have a leak", he said.

 The Husband ran into the room to help and indeed noticed that through the course of his work, Cutie Techie had gently elbowed a corroded pipe off of the hot water heater and it was now spewing water into the laundry room. No damage done, but no hot water for us. 

Two hours later, we now have a new cable/internet service that seems to be faster and cheaper than what Telecom A was previously providing. Yay us! Except that now we don't have any hot water.

We placed an emergency plumbing call to our service contract repair company, who is almost as decent and reliable a company as Telecom A, which has now been jettisoned. Service Contract employee shows up, looks at the job, tells us that he can't fix the problem, suggests we replace our ancient hot water heater, and tells us that he can't guarantee it will be in before Christmas. The Husband is having none of that and promptly starts to scout out plumbers. Six calls and six hours later, a very skinny (no plumber butt required) and very Jewish plumber (he doesn't work on Shabbes) arrives at our door, looks at the problem, can't guarantee the fix will work, and says that it will cost $350.00.

So, our financial savings that were coming from the switch to Telecom B have now all been eaten up for the next three years by a plumbing problem caused by them and the fix from an emergency plumbing call that may or may not work or last for very long.

IF IT AIN'T BROKE, DON'T FIX IT!

A really wise motto to live by.

Another Story About Life in the City

We all could use a wee distraction from the world news, so here's another in my ongoing series of quick hit stories from the downtown streets of my hometown.

The Husband and I made our way over to the local grocery store on Saturday morning. (I hope you all saw the fabulous picture of him shlepping our new bundle buggy. If not, I'll re-post it at the end of this missive so that we can all chuckle together.) I will admit that during the summer we have tended to avoid the big name stores only because the fresh produce is so much nicer at the local farmer's markets and we tend to buy the staples we require at smaller, independent stores. But this week, I needed far more than we could buy at those outlets, so we walked the three blocks up to our local Loblaw.

If you happen to live in Toronto and haven't visited the Loblaw on Queen at Bathurst, you really should. It absolutely caters to the downtown crowd, but it is also a wonderful cornucopia of fresh baked smells, cheeses, pastries, and other truly "off-limits but I wish I could indulge" items for me. It also has a small section near the front where parents who are shopping with small children can take a piece of fresh fruit like a banana or a cluster of grapes for free in order to satisfy their kids. As such, the store also attracts its share of street people in search of a bite and the store seems more than willing to help these folks out. I met up with one such woman on Saturday.

As I was searching through the dairy case for butter, this very chatty dame sauntered up to me and said in a truly concerned voice,

Her: "You must really like butter."

I will admit that the four bricks I had in my hands probably set off her alarm bells.

Me: "Not really. I just have quite a bit of baking to do this week and I need the butter."

Her: "Salted or unsalted?"

I should have walked away at that point, but I will admit that my curiousity got the better of me.

Me: "Both. It really does depend on the cookies and the recipe."

Her: (In a most unequivocal and strident manner) "Unsalted. It needs to be unsalted. You need to watch your blood pressure. If you're not careful, all that salt...you could die of a heart attack."

I thanked her for her concern and started back to rejoin The Husband when she called after me.

"Remember what I said. You need to stay healthy."

At the check-out counter, the young man helping us noticed that The Husband had purchased those very wicked and brand new caramel M&Ms. (When we have a bundle buggy to help us carry stuff, we are both far more prone to buy junk food.) This interesting dude proceeded to give me a lesson on the proper way to eat this magnificent candy.

"You need to suck them. You see there is far less shell on the outside and a much thinner layer of chocolate. Suck them and get to the caramel centre. You will not be disappointed."

I smiled, told him that's exactly how I eat them, thanked him for his help and handed him my VISA card. The look of joy on his face was priceless.

As we left the store I realized that this shopping experience was a far cry from the rudeness I used to encounter in the North Jewish Ghetto or even the shithole that is Publix on Hallandale Beach Boulevard in South Florida. These two souls were very concerned with me and my eating experience. But it also occurred to me that if anybody is ragingly pissed off at me for my last couple of posts, you can rest assured that I will probably die of a salted butter induced heart attack while blissfully sucking on caramel M&Ms.

Just like my new friends at Loblaw on Queen told me.

Check out The Husband and his rocking new bundle buggy. 

Things I Never Thought We'd Say Until We Moved Downtown

The Husband and I are coming up to our moving anniversary. One year ago this week we made the long and arduous trek from the North Jewish Ghetto to our current digs in the city core. Those of you who have followed this space on an even semi-regular basis had front row seats to my angst, emotional trauma, and naked fear as we prepared to leave our life-long suburban confines in order to begin anew as cosmopolitan urbanites. It was a complex cocktail of emotions ranging from exhaustion to exhilaration mixed in with a healthy dose of sadness and topped off with a heaping teaspoon of excitement. There was so much that was unfamiliar and so much to learn, but we embraced our neophyte status with gusto and anticipation.

And now...after almost a year...I can confidently say that we are finally settled. I have a new pharmacy, bank machine, grocery store, and dry cleaners. I still have a few things for which I safari north, not the least of which are dear family and friends, but for the most part, we have constructed a comfortable and no longer strange daily norm for ourselves, all while exploring parts of our hometown that we really never knew existed.

As I have thought back on this year, I have compiled for you all a few memories and thoughts that I still can't believe occurred. These things really happened and the statements forthwith are as true and verifiable as they can possibly be coming from a middle-aged mind. All names have been changed to protect the guilty and supremely embarrassed. Let's just file these under the heading Things I never thought we'd say until we moved downtown.

Him: Wow. Did you hear that?
Her:  Yeah. What the fuck was that?
Him: A cannon.
Her: A what?
Him: A cannon. They use it to mark noon at Fort York. Isn't it cool?
Her: This is 2017. I think we can dispense with in-city cannon-fire and start using a clock. 

Him: I can't believe how much I like riding the streetcar
Her: Even when the passengers smell like headcheese?

Him: The sounds of the city are amazing. They have a real rhythm and a pulse.
Her: Unlike the guy who was stabbed last night across the street.

Her: Maybe I'll buy a bike helmet.
Him: Are you seriously considering riding a bike?
Her: I'm not sure yet. Do you think people will be upset if I ride on the sidewalk?
Him: You're not buying a bike helmet.

Him: I think we should go to the Ex this year.
Her: (pulling her chin off the floor) Really? We haven't been in twenty years.
Him: Yup. We can walk over. Besides you love that Food Network show Carnival Eats. We can marvel at the weird concoctions.
Her: We'll have to walk. I'm gaining weight just thinking about it.

Him: I went to buy bread at that amazing looking bakery across the street and they laughed at me when I asked them to slice it. Apparently, that just isn't done down here. It will "ruin" the elasticity. Who knew?

Him: The guy at the convenience store keeps treats under the counter for visiting dogs.
Her: That's cool. Does this mean we can get a dog?
Him: 🙄

Her: Tell me again which way Richmond and Adelaide run?
Him: We've lived here almost a year. Are you ever going to get it right?
Her: (the next day) Tell me again which way Richmond and Adelaide run?

Her: Hydroponic herb-growing is kind of awesome.
Him: Honestly, that's a phrase I never thought I'd hear from you. Ever.

Him: I just realized that you can see into our bedroom from a corner of the rooftop garden.
Her: I just realized why we have blackout blinds in there.

Her: I swear that everything in this fucking condo was designed for Andre the Giant.
Him: Not really. They just never thought it might be inhabited by the Queen of the Lollipop Guild.

Her: I think we need to buy a bundle buggy for shopping
Him: We're not doing that. Old people do that. We can carry everything we need. We'll look ridiculous.

Her: (a few months later) That cauliflower looks amazing. Let's buy it.
Him: We can't. It's too big and we can't carry it. I guess we'll have to give up purchasing the chocolate covered raisins, bags of chips, and ice cream if you have your heart set on the cauliflower.
Her: Or...we could buy a bundle buggy?
Him: Only if you're the one pulling it. I'll look like an old man.

Her: (later still) I just dropped three dozen bagels on the ground at What-a Bagel
Him: (choking back the laughter and tears) How? Whaaat?
Her: I was trying to look like a cool urbanite and not use plastic bags and the steam from the hot bagels caused the paper bags to disintegrate. I looked like a dotty old lady scurrying around on the floor trying to recover three dozen bagels.
Him: This wouldn't have happened if you had a bundle buggy. 
Her: 😠

Her: I think we've both lost weight since we moved. We are definitely exercising more and walking everywhere. That's a good thing.
Him: And our shopping habits have changed. Because we haven't bought a bundle buggy, we are more careful with our groceries. We can't carry the junk so we simply don't buy it.
Her: True. And we are carrying several kilograms of stuff every time we walk. 
Him: See...we don't need a bundle buggy.

Her: (last week) I love St. Lawrence Market on a summer Saturday.
Him: Yup. This is why we moved. I love the energy and the people.
Her: Look at the beautiful peaches just in from Niagara. A basket is only six bucks.
Him: Do you realize how heavy they are? And you made me buy that bottle of barbeque sauce for your mother and now you want me to shlep peaches? We still have a 5K walk home!!
Her: Bundle buggy?
Him: Fine!
Her: (Ordered today)

Happy urban-versary to my honey. May we have many more years like this last one.

My Husband The Plumber

There is never a shortage of issues confronting us when we arrive at The Southern Home following our annual eight-month hiatus. This isn't surprising. As with any home ownership, things break and crumble with age and weather. In past years, we have had to deal with washing machines that have walked across the floor locking us out of the laundry room, leaky toilets that have left us puddles on the bathroom floor, a garburator that rusted through causing a lake in the kitchen every time the dishwasher was in use, dead palmetto bugs big enough to saddle, broken light fixtures, a defrosted freezer, hurricane shutters that won't open, and twice we had leaks from upstairs neighbours causing enough significant damage in our unit that we had to re-drywall, re-plaster, and repaint. Ah...the joys of condo life. We have been here long enough to know that there will always be some fresh hell sent to challenge us or just plain aggravate us upon our arrival. Of course, this year was no different.

We arrived in the early evening on Saturday. We really weren't planning on arriving until Sunday morning, but heavy rain throughout our drive in Florida really repressed any notion we might have had of stopping for a meal, snacks, or bathroom breaks. There was a dogged determination apparent in The Husband's demeanour that basically said "Enough of this f***ing drive already. Let's just get there." As a result, we were both quite spent upon our arrival and in no mood for bullshit. But, bullshit has a way of finding us. While I got to the unpacking, The Husband set to the task of attempting to open the hurricane shutters. The first two were no issue, but the main one's lock was rusted through and stuck like a son of a bitch. No amount of brute strength, banging, jiggling, or angry cuss words were going to move it. When after countless attempts he finally broke the key off in the lock, I think his angry epithets were heard down in South Beach. Knowing that this was a lost cause in the dark, he moved on to check the rest of the apartment figuring that he would deal with the shutters after a good night sleep. All seemed well until he turned on the main water. (It is a condo regulation that we absolutely must turn off the water when leaving for extended periods of time. The plumbing in this building can only be described as f***ing crap, and as such we have had major leaks over the years. Turning off the water is supposed to help alleviate some of those concerns.) I heard an odd whooshing sound coming from the bathroom and then a plaintive call that sounded like a cow singing James Brown's "I Feel Good." 

Me: "What the f*** was that?"

The Husband: "The toilet is singing to you."

Me: "I'd prefer it didn't but if it has to, I would prefer James Taylor to James Brown."

The Husband: "I don't think it is offering a choice."

While the toilet kept up it's mournful wailing, I kept the faith that this was a temporary situation akin to the broken key currently jammed into the lock on the shutters. The major difference was that the lock while aggravating, didn't have the ability to keep us up all night bleating like two cats in heat. We were simply too tired to deal with it and we were certainly not about to call a plumber at 9:30 pm on a Saturday night. I had no desire to contribute to some pipe jockey's kid's college fund. We climbed into bed with the sounds of Marley's ghost wailing in the background.

But, I married one of the only Jewish handymen. He is really good at fixing things and refused to be waylaid by a broken key or a melancholy toilet. The shutters were successfully opened the next morning, and while he did manage to remove the offending key, he is succumbing to having a professional come to service them and replace the lock. The toilet was another matter. After ascertaining that the flapper inside the tank wasn't sealing properly, we figured out that the offending noise was being caused by a decreasing water line that in turn caused the toilet to run and sing. The flapper needed to be replaced, but given that we had a myriad of tasks to accomplish on Sunday, like groceries, we decided to leave it for one more day. That was a mistake. On Sunday evening, the moaning increased to levels that would have made Tibetan throat-singing monks envious. At 1:00 am, I arose and turned off the water in the toilet. I had to awaken The Husband (how he slept through it I will never know) in order to tell him so that he wouldn't accidentally make a mess the next morning. By first light, I was at Walmart hunting for a replacement flapper. 

My husband the handyman went straight to work. Five minutes later it was Goodbye James Brown; Hello Sounds of Silence.

The Husband is many things, but never once before have I mistaken him for a plumber. He isn't crazy about getting his hands dirty and toilets are not really his thing. But he is my superhero when it comes to stuff like this and I have nothing but admiration for his myriad of hidden talents. If I had known about this when we first met, I might have encouraged this side of him. There is big money in being a plumber. But for now, I think that he will content himself with today's win. Anyway, my parent's toilet is sounding like Barry White. He is going downstairs to silence that one too. 

 

Road Tripping Redux

The Husband and I have completed our annual pilgrimage to the Southern Home and I must say that every year the drive down is filled with more tedium than excitement. Not that I am looking for excitement, mind you. I had enough of that to last me a lifetime the year that we were waylaid for six days by a massive snowstorm in the midwest with nothing to eat but Pizza Hut. (None of us has set foot in a Pizza Hut in more than twenty years.) No, I am perfectly fine with the mundane. But I must say that even after all the years, I am struck by how the little things on a road trip seem to stick with me. This year was no different and offered up a few choice impressions.

• I have never been in the United States for their Thanksgiving. (Sorry Canada. Ours is a pale imitation.) Not ever. I have always envied Americans and their observance of this most secular of holidays. It is an amazing concept. A holiday that cuts across religious lines, is quintessentially American in its origins, involves an entire nation, and allows for gluttony on a national level. What's not to like about that? Watching Americans prepare for this holiday from afar has always been filled with envy and a twinge of sadness. But seeing it up close, even from the limitations of the Interstates, is a revelation. Our hotel was decked out in harvest paraphernalia. The roads were jammed with college students returning home for the holiday in cars packed to the windows with bags of dirty laundry.Thanksgiving specials and flyers were in the windows of even the tackiest of gas station souvenir shops. (I made do without the two-for-one turkey jerky offered in South Carolina.) But my favourite Thanksgiving interlude on the road came from Canonburg Pennsylvania. By sheer chance, (it is almost creepy how by chance this is) we have stopped in the same small town for four years running. It must be that we come through the same stretch of road at approximately the same time every year, given our penchant for starting out early in the morning, or we are just looking for a Subway so that we might be able to eat something vegetarian that doesn't taste like rubber.Whatever the explanation, we once again stopped in Canonburg in order to eat and pee. This year, the only other patrons of the shop were a father and his young son all decked out in pilgrim costume, complete with hat. (I have to say that the hat made the ensemble.) The boy was talking animatedly about John Alden, Myles Standish, and turkey. It reminded me of those days long ago when my own boys would participate in school productions and chatter incessantly about all they had learned. If ever we question the reasons for making holidays fun, interactive, and filled with family and friends, one need only to have watched this little guy exude excitement for the day. It was truly special.
• The border was quiet when we crossed. We were the only ones in the Nexus line, but the heightened security given the Paris attacks was intense and not surprising. We were grilled for several minutes as to the registration of our car, what we were carrying, our professions, and why we were travelling back and forth this winter. We were asked for dates and about the contents of our belongings. We didn't mind, but this was the Nexus line. One can only imagine what the non-prescreened people went through.
• There was many a deer sighting on the road this year. Some live, many not. Bambi and his extended family were actually quite brazen in their appearances, foraging at the side of the road as if it were a Hometown Buffet. It was almost as if they were saying "Hey, we're not turkeys. We have nothing to worry about at this time of year." Of course they probably weren't thinking about the constant barrage of 40-tonne trucks barrelling down on them at every pass. There were deer parts littering the highway all the way into the Carolinas. I suppose Georgian and Floridian deer are smarter than their northern cousins, and stayed away from the Eisenhower-inspired death trap.
• This must be the week that American snowbirds make their way south en masse. It is migration week. So many RVs. So many campers. So many retirees with absolutely no idea how to drive the monster trucks they have purchased. Some are hauling their entire lives in a bus; others are merely hauling SUVs, boats, bikes, and seadoos. It is a wonder any of them reach their destinations safely given the fishtailing, swerving, and odd lane changes. There were times I hung on and just  quietly uttered the Shema hoping for the best. 
• As per usual, The Husband and I fought over the radio. I am perfectly happy with my Broadway channel, while he just drives and stews until I change to a different station. I don't mind The Bridge, but the playlist is limited and I draw the line at the constant repetition of Eagles and Fleetwood Mac tunes. I mean really? How many times in 24 hours does one need to hear Say You Love Me? I say 4 is plenty. So we switched to The Coffee House, a channel that plays hits reimagined acoustically. But Sting waxing with poetic angst on Message in a Bottle put me over the edge. We returned enthusiastically to Broadway. I was struck by some of the ironic music experiences we had. Carly Simon's Anticipation played as we were stuck in a traffic jam outside of Charlotte, and Carolina Day by Livingston Taylor was on as we crossed the state line between the two Carolinas. Coincidence? Probably, but it was still weird.
• The Sunshine State was definitely not. We crossed into Florida and the rain started....hard....and it stayed that way for the next 5 hours. The only positive is that we had no real impetus to stop so we made it down in two full days rather than two and half. 

It is so nice to be here. Of course there are a myriad of problems in the condo that need to be addressed. Aren't there always? A defective toilet flapper is causing one kimode to wail like James Brown. The storm shutters have a rusted lock, meaning that we can't open one side. A call to the experts is on the docket. But the season has begun. Hello South Florida. Nice to see you again.