Death by Construction

Construction Day 1.

I am living in Bosnia. The builders of my house have been working on the foundation for one day and already I feel as if I have been magically transported to a third world country. I was woken this morning by the sound of jack hammers and construction workers talking about killing deer. This was followed by snippets of conversation discussing the merits of putting a lift on a 4-by. The rough translation of “4-by” from White Trash to English is pick up truck. I found listening to them enlightening, and that the stereotype for construction workers was dead on.

First thing in the morning, I had two construction workers in the house putting plastic over my basement door to keep construction dust out of the house. I am nothing if not curious and it occurred to me that these two worker bees had been inside every house in my neighborhood. So I asked, “So of all the houses that you’ve seen in the neighborhood which is the nicest?” Keep in mind the correct answer would be, “Oh! Your house is by far the best we’ve seen!” I don’t know what I was expecting them to do. Fall over and start gushing about how spot-on my decorating was? Ask me where I found my sheep skin rug? Ask, “Those colored vases are amazing! Did you get them at Pier One?” I certainly didn’t expect what happened next. The trashier of the workers looked around for a second and said, “Uh, not this one.”

I was speechless. “Not this one.” What did that mean? And what did some butt crack baring construction worker know about style? Clearly not a whole lot. He was sporting a mullet, wearing a camouflage jacket and a baseball hat that read, “Want to jingle my balls?” Clearly a thoughtful Christmas gift from his girlfriend, Staci The Stripper. Apparently my house was lacking the deer head on the living room wall, and the talking electronic bass in the entryway.

Moral of the story: I hate construction workers.

That evening I came home to a total nightmare. Apparently Mr. Jingle My Balls wasn’t very proficient with his staple gun as the plastic he stapled over the door to the basement blocked out zero dust particles and the entire interior of my house was coated in powdered cement. It was so thick on the floors that I was leaving footprints wherever I walked. The dust covered my couches, TV’s, tables, chairs, counters, silverware, clothing, glasses and anything else that wasn’t sealed in a zip-lock baggie. I felt as if I had walked into a house in Pompeii and peered around looking for the mini volcano that had spewed ash all over my house. I immediately called and left a message for the homebuilder responsible for the mess. Then I left another message, and another message, and another. Each gradually growing angrier.

Message 1, “Um, hi. This is Chris calling and there seems to be dust all over the interior of my house. If you could call me back to discuss, that would be great. Thanks!”

Message 2, “This is completely UNACCEPTABLE! I can’t even begin to describe how dirty this place is. You WILL send someone over to clean it up ASAP!!! BYE!”

Message 3, “I don’t know what you $#@%ing people don’t understand about my last two messages, but this place is a &(*$#)ing mess! I CAN’T LIVE HERE!!!”

Message 4, “LISTEN $#%*&, YOU BETTER *&$##ING CALL ME BACK OR I’M GOING TO #@$%&*ING BURN THE @#$*&ING PLACE DOWN AND BLAME THE @!#$%$#ING CONCRETE DUST!!” This message was left while I was in Home Depot and I’m pretty sure I introduced numerous children to the F word. Oops.

They finally called me back and we had a “Come to Jesus” about the state of the house. I’m sure they think I am a total psycho, but I don’t care. My immaculate house was covered in concrete dust and god knows what else. I’m sure that an integral ingredient in concrete is horse bones and dead mafia bosses. In my mind the entire house was coated in the remains of Mr. Ed and Jimmy Hoffa. Lovely.

Here is what my house looked like:



Construction Day 2.

The next afternoon they came and cleaned. I secretly wished for a whip and a bullhorn to get them to clean faster. Oh, and a pair of those plastic cleaning gloves with the fur trim around the wrists like those British ladies who have the cleaning show on TLC. In the end they did a good job.

That evening I decide to take a nice hot bath. Bossing around the help is hard and sweaty work. I turn on the faucet and start filling the tub. The water stays icy cold. I immediately think that a gas line has been broken and call the gas company. To say they were unhelpful would be an understatement. The call went something like this:

Me: I think I have a gas leak.
Unhelpful Gas Worker: Do you smell gas?
Me: I don’t know. What does it smell like?
Unhelpful Gas Worker: Gas.
Me: Uhhh, OK. Well I don’t know if I smell gas as I don’t know what it smells like…
Unhelpful Gas Worker: It smells like gas. You would know if you had a gas leak. You’d smell the gas.
Me: Um. Okaaaay…
Unhelpful Gas Worker: Goodbye.
Me staring at the phone: You’ll feel really bad when I die a fiery death later tonight!!! Jerk.

I next call my landlord. He tells me that the pilot light has probably been blown out. My response is, “And???” He then informs me that I can go into the basement and relight the pilot light on my own. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he had asked me to change the oil in my car. He gives me brief instruction on how to light the pilot and then says, “Good luck!” before hanging up the phone. Just how I wanted to spend my evening. Playing with gas and an open flame. In my mind I am imagining myself being burned beyond recognition.

I descend the stairs into the basement and notice first that there are huge holes cut into the basement floor. At the bottom of each hole is a muddy puddle. There are six of them, all roughly three feet square. In the spaces where there weren’t holes there were piles of concrete, dirt and large stones. I immediately go back upstairs and find my least favorite pair of shoes, grab a long candle lighter and a flashlight and go back downstairs. I get back to the hot water heater and realize that I am going to have to sit on the floor to light the pilot. I go back upstairs to put on my least favorite pair of pants. I also grab a diet coke as I’m sure this is going to be thirsty work. And a chocolate.

I am now sitting in front of the hot water heater on the dirty floor. The very first thing I notice is the picture. There is a large picture on the front of the hot water heater of a man totally engulfed by flames. His little stick figure legs are trying to run away, but the fire is all around him. I start to think that a cold shower doesn’t sound all that bad. Anything would be better than being barbequed in my basement.

I find the instruction manual and get to work.

After about 45 minutes I realize I’ve been attempting to light the top of a screw. Which in my defense looks exactly like the picture of where I am supposed to place the flame. When I finally find the actual pilot light it’s nowhere near where they showed it in the instruction manual. Once found, I realized my lighter is not long enough to reach the pilot. I go back upstairs to find long items that I can light on fire to reach into the depths of the hot water heater. Some candidates were: A few pieces of my broom, some fettuccini noodles, a long strip of cardboard, and a candle wick that I pulled from a candle and taped to a shish-k-bob skewer. With my supplies in hand I was ready for battle. As it turns out, dried pasta is not very flammable but does melt well. Ditto for pieces of the broom. The cardboard must have been coated with some kind of non-flammable substance, as I could not even get it to smolder. The winner was the candlewick / skewer combo.

The first time I got the pilot lit I almost pooped my pants. The pilot makes a popping noise when lit, and I thought this was it. I was dead. That first pop would be followed by a massive explosion, blasting my burning body out of the back of the house to be eaten by the mountain lions and coyotes that live in my back yard. Since I jumped, the pilot light stayed lit for perhaps 2 seconds. My next attempt was successful, and I consider myself lucky that I didn’t blow up the house.

I’m sure the coming weeks will be filled with other fun experiences for me. The ones I’m most looking forward to are: The Loss of Electricity. The House Collapsing While I Sleep. No Heat. No Water at All. And, if I am really lucky I’ll get to relight the pilot light about a dozen more times. Kill me now…