Done!

Well, done with the demolition anyway. Here's the final "After" picture, with the last section all chopped up:

And here's a closeup of the hard part, with a handy dog for scale (and, unfortunately, another dog who is less handy and puts his head right in front of what I'm talking about. But still, I think you can tell that this particular corner, instead of being the standard two to five inches thick, is just insanely thick.)

We apparently have at least one and possibly as many as three options for getting rid of the concrete. The friends who are building a house behind ours now say they need all of their rubble, so I guess it's possible they'd also want ours. Then there's a lady across the street who is said to be filling in a chasm and may be interested. And my next door neighbor says that the guy who cuts her grass definitely wants it. In fact, he asked for the rocks that were dug out of the construction site off our back corner, but the house behind us already had dibs. So apparently the rubble will go away eventually. Which is good.

I also found out something interesting about our yard this week. Our grass is very poor - some of it grows very fast and tall and has ropy roots growing across the surface of the yard. Some of it grows slower. And a lot of it isn't grass at all, but some kind of ground cover that seems to be taking over from the grass.

What I found out was that when they put in the grass after the house was built, they went with an economy deal: some guys just cut this sod from the vacant lot behind the house and dropped it in here.

Once I gave it some thought, I decided that this is actually good news. It means there's still hope for the yard. If we want to get all up in its face someday and rip out the nastygrass and lay down something decent, it might actually work. I mean, maybe our yard isn't inherently patchy and weed-ridden. Maybe it's just that they transplanted a vacant lot instead of laying real sod.

Scott, one of these days I'm going to send you pictures of my biggest problem area and ask you for free advice...Just so you know.

Message not quite received

My father in law has been seriously overweight ever since I met him a dozen years ago. He used to smoke, but successfully quit some years back. My mother in law, who cooks all of their meals, has begun to use olive oil instead of shortening for cooking and says they're eating less meat, but frying is still the cooking method of choice. The oven is used as a breadbox; nothing is ever baked.

On Friday, Robin went to their house after school as usual. I was supposed to pick her up for a swim meet the next day, but at 5:30 Saturday morning, Yolanda called to say she had left Robin at Betty's house and was on the way to the hospital with Jose, who was having severe chest pains, headache and nausea.

Most of his immediate relatives who have died have done so as a result of heart disease. He was kept throughout the day for observation. Yolanda went home for a while, then went back around noon and we didn't hear anything at all until 6:00 pm, when she called to say that he had been released and that they were home.

They found that his blood pressure was elevated and he was bloated. Also, of course, overweight. He was instructed to get his BP checked daily and see someone about the weight issue.

My overall impression is that they are feeling like they dodged a bullet...that "thank goodness nothing was really wrong." They both readily acknowledge that he needs to reduce his weight, and they have a general idea of what constitutes healthy eating, but I don't really see this as leading to long-term changes or significant weight loss.

Help! I'm soiled and I can't take a bath!

Okay, here's a better picture of what I did yesterday:



Also, I measured. The whole shed measured 6 by 5 meters (almost 20 by 16.5 feet) = 30 square meters (323 square feet). So the three sections each measure almost 10 feet by just over 8 feet, and the fourth section, which was never poured, is just dirt. Well, grass. Well, weeds.

Here's today's progress, Before:



and After:



See that spigot in the Before picture? And the nice, neatly capped pipe in the After? Well, I for sure have to wait two hours for the glue to set, but technically I'm supposed to give it 24 hours before putting it to a "pressure test" such as turning the water back on would entail. Hmmm, maybe I should eat out tonight.

Now, as you can well imagine, everyone who knows what I'm doing (including Elberth) has at some point said to me, "Why don't you just have Elberth do it?" And since I want to do it myself I have to make sure I do it right, right? Because...well, you can probably figure it out.

So when I got around the spigot part I called José and asked him which way the pipe angled in - from the main turnoff at the street, or from the drain across the yard where the wastewater goes (only sewage goes through septic tanks here; gray water all goes through drainpipes out to the gutters in the street.) He said the water angled in from the direction of the drain, but that it was below the level of the concrete and shouldn't be a problem. He was right about that. I was able to break up all the concrete without hitting, or even finding, the water pipe.

But I couldn't leave well enough alone. I wanted to break the concrete away from the spigot, and that's when I heard the spraying sound I was hoping not to hear...So I turned off the water, called José for advice and then found what I needed in the shed. We already had a new tube of PVC adhesive and although the construction detritus did not yield the kind of cap I technically needed, I did find a...umm...Okay, I know what it's called in Spanish. Anyway, a thing I could join to the pipe and then a cap that screwed onto that.

And, really, it's better to have the whole thing sealed off than to leave a random spigot sticking up on a bendy, unprotected PVC pipe in the middle of the yard. It would have needed to be done anyway, but still. I wish I could say I did it on purpose...

And now I can't wash. I actually cleaned the worst of the mud off my hands with water that was sitting in dishes in the sink. It wasn't that bad. And I have bottled drinking water so I could make a cup of coffee.

Hey! Since we're on the topic, here's a picture of why I buy bottled drinking water. It's the tub after I took a bath one day. (A relax-in-the-tub kind of bath, not an I've-been-hacking-up-concrete kind of bath):



Granted, that's worst-case, but you never know when the water's going to come out like that and when it's going to look more or less clear. So we don't drink it.

Picky, picky

There. Showed that concrete who's boss.

Backstory: When they build houses here (or maybe everywhere, what do I know?) they build a temporary shed for the watchman to sleep in, and to keep the tools in and stuff.

They got pretty happy making our shed, and poured it a concrete floor. In fact, when we moved down here, it had two rooms (not including the chicken coop), with running water, electricity, a phone line and a woodstove. Oh, and also our (former) bed - three feet from the chicken-mite condo. (I don't know what they're really called, but there are these little bugs that live in chicken coops and I call them chicken mites. You could step quickly in and then right back out of the chicken coop and immediately find eight or ten of these tiny, colorless little bug things crawling on you. That bed never came back into the house.)

Anyway, the shed eventually came down, but Alex wanted to keep the cement. First he wanted to park on it (not a convenient location), then he wanted to keep it for outdoor entertaining (not a convenient location), then he said it would be a good place for the kids to play (no more so than any other part of the yard). The outdoor entertaining part was what he cared about most.

So we've been talking about building a path from the gate to the house, which led to thoughts about other things we can do out there, and on Tuesday we were talking about different possibilities and I mentioned that the instructions I found for building a stone walkway can also be used for a stone patio. Which might be nicer than random poured concrete that's not even a regular shape. He thought that might be okay, and between us we even came to the conclusion that there is a better spot in the yard for it to go. I double checked. I asked him straight out. And he said the cement floor could go. That was Tuesday.

It rained all day Wednesday, but I wasn't kidding this morning when I said I wanted to get at the concrete pad with a pickaxe. And I turned off the computer and I did.

The shed itself was pretty much square, but one-fourth of it was a chicken coop with a dirt floor. So what remains today is a cement pad that is three quarters of a square (which I forgot to measure, but I'll get back to you with the dimensions). I started with the section against the fence, because Alex had already mentioned about cutting out at least a section of that so we can put in some bamboo to fill in that space along the property line. Also, the land slopes down from there, so it's probably the thinnest part. (Turns out it ranged from about one to four inches thick.)

So I got my pick, my safety goggles and my kitchen timer (45 minutes till I had to go inside and clean up to pick up the girls from school.) And I whupped some concrete butt. It'd be nice if my digital camera had higher resolution, but I think you can tell what I did there. For perspective: that's a child-sized chair, and the blue thing is a 5-gallon paint bucket.

Figuring out how to swing the pick so my hand didn't absorb the recoil was pretty easy. Aiming was surprisingly easy - the amount of aim needed for wholesale destruction, anyway. You know what the hard part was? Keeping my mouth closed. The goggles protected my eyes, but raisin-sized chunks did manage to fly directly into my nose at two different points and I had to consciously breathe in and then shut my mouth before each stroke landed or I would have been munching dust for sure.

And the painful part? Bathing after I was done (and washing dishes this evening). I discovered I had a teeny little raw spot on my left thumb and it stings like a something-not-very-nice whenever it gets wet. There are also two small blisters on my other hand, but they don't hurt because they didn't pop. Maybe I'll try it with gloves on tomorrow.

Act your age

Here's another one. (Really, I want to get outside and start hacking away with a pick at the concrete pad at the top of our yard, but until just this minute it was too cold and drizzly. But I'm going. Right now.)

What Age Do You Act?

You Are 34 Years Old 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

(I think everyone who reads this has a general idea of my age, but just in case: I'm 36.)

Hmmm

Sheryl at PaperNapkin took the quiz. She's Kermit. I thought, Cool! That sounds about right for her. I'll take the quiz and get to be a muppet too!

Um, you guys?


You are Janice.
You dig the groove man, nothing can bum you out.
Too bad you're too stoned to notice.

INSTRUMENT:
Like, you know, guitar, fer sure.
LAST BOOK READ:
"Finding Your Past Lives on the Web"

FAVORITE EXPRESSION:
"Fer sure, like, fer sure."

FAVORITE THINGS:
Peace, love and, like, granola, totally.

NEVER LEAVES HOME WITHOUT:
Her inner child.


What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Have a hearty laugh at my expense

But only if it's warranted. And I'll wager few--if any--of you will know whether it is, in fact, warranted. I certainly don't. So where does that leave you?

I know, I know: "Wha...???" Allow me to explain. Last night I tried to made pizza for dinner. When the dough was all risen and I went to get the ingredients out, I discovered that my container of thawed pizza sauce was starting to go bad AND that the cheese was frozen solid. Probably because I buy the cheapest mozarella I can find, it was compacted into a solid block despite technically being shredded cheese, so there was no crumbling off a bit of it like I used to do back in the days of decent bulk mozarella.

I suppose could have spooned off the questionable sauce and gotten some untainted stuff from the bottom. But I knew that even if it smelled and tasted fine, I wouldn't be able to enjoy it.

The girls like their pizza without sauce; I could have made pizza with American cheese and no sauce. How sad would that have been? Homemade pizza crust studded with bright orange squares of plastic cheese? (And, in Robin's case, bananas and apples...)

Or I could save the crust and make a real pizza tonight. I talked the girls into that and we all had cereal for dinner.

But here's the thing: I didn't want to freeze the dough. To begin with, I'm not too clear on the mechanics of the whole thawing/rising thing, and anyway we're using it within 24 hours. It had already risen an hour, been punched down & kneaded, and risen most of another hour. I didn't punch it down or anything, I just stuck a lid on the bowl and shoved it into the fridge.

Today I noticed that it had continued to rise which, frankly, strikes me as odd. I guess tonight I'll just punch it down and roll it out. But I can't help wondering what it will do. Will it be tough? Rubbery? Soggy? Crunchy? Floppy? Maybe we'll end up with matzza. (Get it? Anybody?)

If you have any experience in this particular branch of culinary science, you are personally invited to picture us having our dinner this evening and, yes, to have a hearty laugh at my expense. But only if it's warranted.

Gold

It's a gold mine. In Chihuahua. I know there's a joke in there somewhere, but it eludes me. Anyone?

Nothing definite, but things are coming along enough that we're starting to wonder things like, "Will working in a mine shaft invalidate his life insurance?" and "Just how many countries will be able to tax the income of a Costa Rican with a US Green Card if he works in Mexico for a Canadian company?" I've managed our taxes through thick and thin (a k a dual-status aliens and foreign-earned income) but if this comes through, 2006 may go down in history as The Year of the Accountant.

My cat

...had her pick of cushy, stable beds, sofas and chairs, but chose to sit on the railing over the stairwell. Ten feet down, and not even onto level floor, because the stairs continue under the railing. She's an odd bird.

You really should

You guys should all have blogs.

Knowing you get to complain about something to the entire world really makes things less annoying as they are happening. You start writing about it in your head, the focus shifts, it's healthy.

So I'm driving to San Jose yesterday. I'm behind a bus, which begins to slow considerably and (I'm pretty sure) put on its flashers. I thought I remembered a bus stop about there, and I had a good view of the road ahead, so I pulled around it (double yellow line be damned). I was a little irritated when the bus didn't stop, but instead trundled on down the hill, gaining a bit of speed and making me work a little harder to pass than I felt was necessary.

But here's my point. When I glanced up and saw that the bus driver was actually talking on his cell phone, I immediately saw the scene through the context of the blog and began composing this entry in my head.

(The irony of the fact that I was passing illegally while on my way to get my driver's license didn't even hit me until that night. That's what driving here will do to you. I'm pretty sure I still notice the solid line, and I often respect it, even. (Which of course makes it that much more dangerous for the driver behind me, who then has to pass me and a bus, often uphill and around a curve.) But if I can see far enough ahead, I will go ahead and pass a bus or slow truck, double yellow line, as I said, be damned.)

So anyway. The MOPT (which is the Ministry of Public Works and Transportation = Costa Rica's DMV).

Finding the place was actually the toughest part: I had been twice before, but had never driven myself. I looked up the address in the white pages, but that was as useless as you'd expect (again, don't get me started on the CR phone books...). But I shouted over to a cab driver at a red light and he gave me directions that didn't take me all the way there, but did put me in the right part of town. I asked a lady who didn't know, and then a guy who told me that a right at the next light would take me straight there. Well, that street was one-way to the left, so I took the next one and, indeed, it took me straight there.

I knew I was in the right place when I saw a grubby guy at that next traffic light with a sandwich board offering medical exams for driver's licenses. Then another guy on the same street tried to wave me over to a grimy gate with the same sign. The hand painted (or magic markered) signs offering medical exams were thicker in the next block, and then I was there. The parking lot attendant tried valiantly to talk me into getting the medical exam there, but I held out. And I may have actually been rude to the crowd of guys hawking medical exams on the steps of the MOPT office itself.

Once I got in, it all went quite smoothly, with six steps accomplished in an hour and a quarter. I did, of course, need the medical exam, but I knew from last year when I tried unsuccessfully to get my license, that there was a tiny but clean office straight across the street where they charge the official rate ($10, just raised from $6) and the doctor is a woman. Not that there's a lot involved - height, weight, reflexes, eye chart, stethoscope.

Then across the street in the other direction for the various photocopies required, then back into the DMV office for the most daunting step of all, and one that has broken down on me in the past. Foreign residents of Costa Rica who have a valid driver's license from their own country can get a Costa Rican license without jumping thorugh too many hoops. However, the foreign license has to be "validated" by someone. Someone specific. And if she's not in that day, there is no recourse but to come back when she is. Before getting the medical certificate I had stopped by her office and found a locked door and two guys waiting in the hall. Not auspicious.

When I got back with my stuff, there were five people waiting outside the locked door. But after 15 minutes, she came back and whipped through those validations in record time. Then I could breathe easier because all I had to do was go through the regular process to get the thing issued. For those of you counting along at home, that's three steps down and three to go.

First you go to the computer line, which was...oh, I'd say about 15 people long at the time. They have five computer stations, three of which were staffed. The computers are all matching, new-looking Dells, and when it was my turn I even noticed a Microsoft sticker on one proclaiming that it was running a legal, licensed copy of Windows. My guy was interrupted twice by some other employee asking about something, but whatever. My chair was missing an armrest, but was pretty comfortable.

Then I had to go make a bank deposit ($8) and would you believe they have a bank branch right there, inside the MOPT??? And there were three windows, all with tellers, serving a total of two people? No way.

The last stop is to get your picture taken, fingerprint scanned, and signature digitally recorded. There were probably 20-some people in line for that. There are six camera stations set up, and I think about four of them were staffed. The "line" for this is that marvelous Costa Rican phenomenon: rows of molded plastic seats where everybody gets up and scoots over one each time somebody is called for their turn. I was soooo tempted to leave an extra space between me and the next guy, who was fanning himself so hard he must have been working up another sweat. And, not that he was that big a guy, but he just didn't seem able to contain himself to the space of a single seat.

But, fortunately, I sucked it up and sat in the appropriate seat. I say fortunately because the security guard assigned to that section clearly has too much time on his hands, and patrolled the area several times to make sure everybody moved over, every seat, every time (I guess in case a sudden influx of 40 additional people flooded in - there were four empty rows behind us). He also busted me for sticking my papers in my backpack instead of keeping them visible.

I didn't get the camera guy I was hoping for, who was genial and seemed to get people to smile. The guy I did get looked like the quintessential government employee: skinny, pasty (or he would have been, if the Costa Rican complexion could manage "pasty") and expressionless.

He did his computer thing, then kind of nodded at the camera, so I obligingly looked at it and smiled. I had watched some of the other camera guys enough to know that once the picture is taken, they it photo and do some other computer stuff, so when the camera made a noise I settled back and looked around the room while I waited. Then the camera flashed. Oops. So he nodded at it again and I tried again. And I'm not sure just how it happened, but I glanced away just as it flashed. Again. And then you know what? The little government employee dude got a little bit of personality! He actually looked over and made a little joke about what must be so interesting up there, and then he pointed to the camera again and told me to smile, in a way that kind of made me laugh, and my picture came out pretty good. Yay.

So then I signed the little electronic pad thing and held my forefinger on the little infra-red sensor thing, and then waited for my card and got it and went home, the end.


EDITED: Okay, okay. I blurred the juicy parts. Sheesh. But true.