In which your humble narrator discusses the requirements that must be met to keep his house from disintegrating, discusses home improvement peer-pressure, creeping socialism and imparts a moral he learned when his mother made him go to Girl Scout Camp.
On Child #1's birthday a few weeks ago I was all set to have a new water heater installed. Our water heater is over 20 years old. The thermostat seems to be going (some showers are tepid, some are searing) We've been informed that the bottom could drop out at any moment, flooding the basement with scalding hot water and potentially burning the cats' feet if they were unfortunate to be using the litter box at the time. In the morning, our plumber arrives with new water heater in truck and goes down to the basement to start draining the old one, and unhooking the venting whereupon he discovers that we don't have a metal-lined chimney. Instead, (like virtually all houses built before 1975) we have a clay liner.
"According to code I can't put in a new water heater until you have the chimney lined," he says.
"Boo!" says I.
"You have to get it lined so that you don't have carbon monoxide leak into your house," says he, "Everyone else has a metal liner in their chimney," he told me, trying to peer-pressure me into it.
"But I don't believe in code! I'm a Maverick. I've gone rogue! This is socialism! I don't care what other people are doing! The government can't tell me how to line my chimney!"
But he was implacable. So we're supposed to have the chimney lined this week. And only then can we get a new water heater. Here I thought I might finally get to spend some money on something enjoyable for the house, but no. I'm gonna get me some metal tubing that I'll never see... the only purpose of which is to save me and my family from death by carbon monoxide. Lame.
So there's that indignity. I've been forced to spend money on another boring mechanical update. I remain sanguine, however with the comfort of a lesson learned many years ago when my mother made me go to Girl Scout Camp.You see, my mother was a semi-professional Girl Scout Leader and as such was entitled to free day-care at Girl Scout Camp in 1988. No problem for my sister, an acknowledged girl, but somewhat more tricky for me, a distinctly masculine character. So for a week I, and four other unfortunate boys were segregated into a "boy's unit" (No, really! That's what they called it! I didn't find this funny when I was 9, but there were adults who should have known better.) at Girl Scout Camp.
The theme of camp was "The Olympics" as they were happening in Seoul at about the same time. So at the end of the week there was a flag ceremony and a "games" wherein the girls did potato sack races and jumped rope or something. The boys weren't invited to the games but we were at the flag ceremony. Each unit (tee-hee) had constructed a flag for their assigned country (We were Belgium... a manly land if ever there was one) and we paraded them around while they played 'Symphony for the Common Man.'
And then the head Girl Scout Leaders judged who had the best flag. We won. And the girls booed. And hissed, like a den of vipers.
So not only were we poor boys forced to go to Girl Scout camp in the first place, but when we hoisted the most impressive flag, we were booed by hundred of girls.
Fortunately none of us were particularly traumatized because we knew that all the girls had cooties. Also it was fun to see the leaders yell at them.
My mother is a bit sensitive when I tell this story (Along the lines of "Here we go, how else did I ruin your childhood?). Which is, of course, the best part of telling it. Which brings us to the moral of our story.
There is virtually no experience annoying/stupid/humiliating enough that it doesn't end up being worth complaining about for the rest of your life. And if you enjoy complaining as much as I do... well then...
Bliss.
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