I Am Not Yet King, and Hardhead Bad, Hardhead Good

What a day. AS YOU MAY RECALL, our hero had a dental appointment yesterafternoon, and a meeting with the home builder guy at 3:30.

I had thought that I was going to get my permanent crown yesterday, so you can imagine my utter disappointment when my pain administration specialist said she was just going to check the tooth and make sure she didn't have to grind anymore off. I vaguely remember the last time two weeks ago when she said that the gum was so "angry" that she really wasn't sure that she had ground away all she needed to and might need to do some more later. At the time, I thought this meant "later, but only moments before I cement in your permanent crown." Actually, this meant that she might do some, and then wait some more to put the crown in. ::sigh::

Well, crap. She told me she was going to lift up the temp and have a look, and I thought this might sting a bit, but no big deal. I was, of course, wrong. Had to have more injections into my now famously hard head. This time though, she started out with the big guns, three jabs with giant cylinders of go-numb juice. Ow. Ow. Ow.

She then told me that she was quite sure the problem last time was due to my extreme bone density--she said with some folks she can even feel the needletip penetrate into the jawbone a bit [insert full body shiver here] but that when she gave me my shots, it was just like the needle hit a rock. "Why thank you--you know, that's probably because I have an uncle on my dad's side who was an Australopithecus robustus." Which actually came out more as, "Uhmph uu gah dahg bahm."

Anyway, off she went to yank on someone else's teeth, and I sat there trying to remember the lyrics to Comfortably Numb. It seemed the stuff was working quicker this time, thank goodness, and after just a few minutes the tell-tale rubberface feeling had set in. She came back to check on me, and I told her it seemed like I was ready to go. She got her assistant in and they started to work. She worked the little pointy gum jabber thing under my temp and pulled it off, I guess, and was suitably impressed with the lack of any angriness on the part of my gum tissue, and as a reward I was treated to a shot of air across the raw tooth.

This was painful.

Pain of a painosity so painish that mere painjectives cannot adequately describe the sense of sheer pain and pain that painfully radiated painfully throughout my pain-wracked body and penetrated to the very painful pit of my pain-twisted guts. "Sorry, hon, but we have to get it dried off a bit to make an impression." "UUH!! OOH! AaccAchagga u ow oh i itwou!!"

"I know, sugar."

I don't think you do!

They finished up with the Blast-O'-Air torturefun and they then put a wad of caulking in my gaping painhole, which I got to clamp down on for a bit. That set, she popped it off and very carefully examined the impression to make sure that there were no voids or defects. There were. "Open wide, sweetie, I think we're gonna need to get another one--this one has a tiny little void on the edge." SO?! I have a tiny void in my head, and you don't see me filling it with a caulk gun! I opened up, and guess what?

They had to dry my tooth off again.

It hurt. I became the cartoonist's model for use in drawing visible radiating pain waves. They projected out in a giant cloud, reflecting off of the walls and the ceiling, yet strangely they seemed to have no effect on my two Serbian interrogators. "Just a bit, hon, and it'll all be over." And it will be lovely, with all sorts of smelly flowers, and all sorts of nice people signing the guest book and commenting on how peaceful and lifelike I looked. "He looks like he's just a'sleeping away, don't he?"

Finally through with the Airgun of Joy, and another impression, which this time impressed the good doc with how finely made it was. Thus suitably satisfied, it was time to button me back up and send me home to meet the contractor. The assistant set about regluing my temp. In order to make me powerless to resist coming back again, she had to reach over me to get something off the tray on the other side, thus insuring that her full breastal region contacted my person. "'Scuse my reach, Terry." ::sigh:: "Thath kay."

Got through in only thirty minutes, which seemed like only four or five days, but in any event, I had time to go grab a bite to eat and run home. Got my fast food and got back to the house with plenty of time to spare. Before I sat down to eat, I had the foresight to run around upstairs closing off the bedroom doors to keep our slovenly habits from becoming more widely known and was just coming down the steps when I saw someone at the door. Huh? I glanced at my watch--3:00 p.m. I told him 3:30. Ah. AH!

Sneaky contractor trick. 'I showed up and waited a while and you weren't there' deal. Not this time, bucko. I went on down and let him in and cordially invited him in, "Hey, come on in. You doing alright? Good. Hey, lemme ask you--did we say 3 or 3:30?" "Uh, well, 3...3:30, sometime around in there." Uh-huh. Jackhole. "Oh well, I guess it's a good thing they got me out ahead of time--come on in and let's go upstairs and let me show you what I think I've found."

It might be good to remind you, gentle reader, that until now, I have not disclosed to these folks my educational or professional background--for all they know, I'm just some big fat dude with a complaint. Rebecca asked me last night why I didn't tell them I was an architect, and as I explained to her, I wanted to give these folks the benefit of the doubt and give them every opportunity possible to do the right thing and act in good faith without resorting to acting like I was expecting better treatment than everyone else. Just because I'm in the trade doesn't mean I should get preferential treatment. And, as I told her, I could be wrong about the problem. Not bloody likely, but still within the realm of possibility. I reassured her though, that if the people decided to still say that this was her Daddy's fault, that I would begin by rolling out the diplomas and the resume, and if that didn't work, the mention of our local TV ombudsgadfly, and then the phone number of the lawyer I know who is feared by every contractor in town. Measured response, mailed fist/velvet glove--that crap. She seemed to understand and was quite excited about the possibility of Daddy going nuclear.

Anyway, I led him up to the attic and we tiptoed over to the chimney. "Okay, now this is what I'm seeing," as I pointed with the flashlight, "--you see that round white bloom of mold there? That's coming from that nail. That nail is right where that little bit of roof slopes down and intersects with the wall of the chimney. Now, the way I figure it, that nail is through the flashing, and it has been leaking little by little since the house was built, and it eventually saturated all this sheathing here--which you can see has turned black and has little moldy things growing off of it--and finally the water made its way allll the way downstairs. When the sheathing got all saturated, it swelled up, and that's what caused the caulk joint outside to open up. If you remember, the other joint over here on this side is still tight, and all the other joints are tight, too. And you can see up top there that there is no water line above the nail, only below."

He got his flashlight and stepped over. Shone it up. Looked. Looked. Shone it slowly down. Up. Down. Uppppp. Dowwwwwn. OVER. Dowwwwn. Stepped to the side and looked out the gable vent at where the roof comes into the chimney. Looked back in chimney. Light up. Down. Felt of sheathing. Wet. Ovvvvvver. Down. Stepped back and looked outside. Back over, looked back in chimney. Up. Up way up. Dowwwn.

"Okay."

He turned around and started walking back to the attic stairs. Retreat, or tactical withdrawal? No comments. He started getting the insulation fuzz off his shoes--"Oh, that's alright, I'll get that up later," I said sweetly. I closed up the stairs and went downstairs, and he was back over at the fireplace, studying the big crack and stain. "Yeah, it really came in...what was it?...Sunday?...Saturday night when we got all that rain? It ran all over the top of the mantlepiece."

He went outside. Slow rain. He looked up. Studied hard for a few minutes. "You see here? This is what I was saying about all the caulk joints being tight except that one." He looked.

Finally, "Well, okay. I'm gonna have to get with some folks I need to talk to, and I'll have to get back with you." "Oh, that's great! Do you have an idea when they will have an answer for you?" I said brightly. "Uh, well, umh, I should hear back by Friday." "Okay, then, I look forward to hearing from you Friday, and listen, I REALLY appreciate you coming back out here like this. It's such a messy, dreary old day--so thanks!' I shoved my hand out and shook his, and he slowly walked to his truck and I went back in the house and ate my lunch.

It tasted very good. Sometimes it pays to have a hard head.

ALTHOUGH...

They being contractors, I will not claim that I have won the war here. This was a minor skirmish, and though won decisively, there is still the possibility of further counterattacks or prolonged negotiations to sue for more favorable terms.

Unconditional surrender, my friends. Unconditional surrender.
posted by Terry at 8:19:00 AM