The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Maybe you’re familiar with the cautionary crawler at the bottom of your screen after some amazing feat of derring-do or plain insanity has culminated in a wildly successful outcome: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. This could be the mantra of the mizzus whenever I attempt some Do-It-Yer-Damn-Self project that probably should be left to professional stuntmen. Or certified electricians and plumbers. Okay, I admit to nearly burning down the glass shack a few years back, coulda happened to anybody, really, or at least those who were brave enough to stand on a rubber truck tire and ground a 60 amp breaker without being knocked unconscious clear across the lawn. Or the electrical issue up at the rental house next door, something to do with wiring hots to colds or neutrals to partisans, never did figure it out but next morning the wire nuts were melted and scorch marks indicated another lucky break for Mr. DIY.

So when she wanted a new shower installed, maybe it made sense to hire it done by skilled tradesmen. To her it made sense. To me, I’m the yahoo who put the original one in when I built the house. And, just to be fair –to me—let’s acknowledge that I built the house. Did you build yours? Did she build ours? I think you see where I’m going with this. Yes, I decided to do it my own damn self.

I’m not going to bore you with too many details of this project. Other than to say right off the get-go, the drain for our old shower would not match any drain pan in the plumbing supply house’s catalog. And since our drain is buried half a foot in concrete, moving the line would have required a jackhammer and even then…. Well, maybe you see my dilemma. It took a day to dismantle the old shower, only breaking a couple of supply lines. The new shower pan had to be raised six inches on a platform to connect to the old drain. Again, I don’t want to bore you with the esoterica of neo-angle glass door installations but suffice it to say the instructions were meant for professionals who needed no instructions, not me.

Half a week later…. a few glitches, a few reversals of fortune, many curses and more than necessary alterations in plan, the new shower was installed, the woodworking surrounding it had been replaced with new varnished cedar and once again, Mr. DIY emerged scratched but victorious. Until the leaks began to show up behind the new cedar baseboards. Something I ignored for awhile, thinking maybe splash from the open door or … ?

If you know plumbing like I know plumbing, you understand that the gods of these subterranean pipes are cruel and capricious. If you don’t know that, you have no bizness messing with their turf. They will mess you up, amigo. They will break you. They will make you wish you had never been born. I wish that I’d never been born. Do you have any idea what it feels like to imagine a leak underneath the pan, probably in the drain connections, that will require dismantling the Entire Shower, the adjoining woodwork and probably necessitate a new pan? Or worse? Of course you don’t because I can barely imagine it. The horror, the horror!

Karen wants me to hire a pro. As if there were plumbers or bathroom remodelers waiting for my call. The ones I did call were too booked to even consider coming out. They have appointments deep into next year. So you know what this means, don’t you? I’ll be sure to let you know how this turns out the second time through….

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I got some friends who are kidless. And who own cats. Being single, they have to pay their rent, their mortgage, their car payments, gas, food, health care, clothes and all the rest, by themselves. I know plenty of people on the South End who are married, both working and still have a hard time making ends meet. Excuse me if I ask the Yale graduated venture capitalist rich guy running for Vice President who thinks these women should pay more in taxes than women who have children, why the emphasis on child bearing and not, say, helping all women who struggle to find work and housing in this economy of inequality? Hillbilly Elegy, you might think, would offer some insights into poverty and the folks left behind in our technology driven society. Might even give the writer a profound sense of empathy for the poor, cat owners or not.

But no, what we have here is a man … and a political party … against raising wages, opposed to welfare, fighting to keep unions from coming back, interested primarily in giving the corporations and the wealthy a leg up, lower their taxes and hope that the old trickle down will solve the income gap. C’mon, whatever happened to compassionate conservatism? Drive down to any moderately sized city in this country and observe for yourself the proliferation of tents along the freeway or in parks or the homeless lined up along industrial avenues living in busted down RV’s or junker cars. Stop at the rest area along the way and maybe notice how many of those there are living in their vehicles, using the restroom to wash and brush their teeth.

You might think this problem would dominate the political discussions. These are our citizens. Sure, you can force them off welfare and into the workforce. But if you make minimum wage and the cost of rent is more than half your income, leaving no room for food or much else, maybe that’s not a solution. And if you happen to be one of those women JD Vance think is more invested in the future of the country and more deserving of her help, well how about covering those childcare costs, the daycare fees, the extra mouths to feed? How about offering help to ALL of those in need, even the ones who have cats? If not, spare us the talk about religion, you haven’t got one. And no, capitalism is not a religion.

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More and more of us South Enders are losing their religion, don’t ask me why. I just read a survey that showed a quarter of us don’t believe in a Supreme Being, too bad for Donald Trump. That’s way up since the last survey. But here’s the odd part: the number of us who don’t believe in God but believe in an afterlife doubled. Faith based Heaven, I suppose, or maybe just bad logic, a trend that seems to be more and more prevalent.

Down at the Little Church in the Ravine, Rev. Paul makes it a point most every Sunday to exhort his flock to eschew sin. Live a holy life, he preaches, and if you mess up, ask the Good Lord for forgiveness. Believe on the Lord, he says, or surely Hell will follow.

Now, I may be mistaken here, but I’m guessing most of the folks who believe in an afterlife are talking about Streets of Gold, not Beelzebub’s BBQ. You don’t believe in a deity, you probably won’t buy the quaint notion of the Devil. And if you think Heaven is waiting for you no matter what, why not enjoy a little sinning while you’re waiting for the Pearly Gates to open? No punishment waiting, no purgatory for the wicked. Believe me, Pastor Paul doesn’t pound that pulpit with his ragged Bible to tell parishioners they got nothing to lose if they covet their neighbor’s wife. Go right ahead, cheat the other guy on that used car you said was running great when you know damn well the engine isn’t getting oil up in the cylinder head. You can make a little extra money and still get a reservation in the Angel Motel after your last breath.

Shirley, my neighbor who runs the Pampered Pekingese Pet Grooming service, claims she’ll be reincarnated. As a pup. The Hindu believe the Wheel rewards those who do good, but I guess now we think we get what we want, not what we deserve. Shirley better hope she doesn’t end up at the pound with all the other unwanted pets. Not everyone gets pampered in this mean old world.

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I’m usually an optimistic guy. A chucklehead, really, but I was born a white male in America, as lucky a combination in this cruel world as I can think of. You want to talk about the 1% of the world, I’m in the club. But lately I’ve been troubled, my optimism has begun to seep away and dark thoughts crowd my horizon. Maybe you know what I mean, just an inchoate Dread starting to cloud your days. Climate change, Gaza, Trump, Ukraine, Artificial Intelligence, Trump, pandemics … did I mention Trump?

The past few years, the past few decades, they’re the hottest on record. Storms are worse, hurricanes form faster, the Arctic icepack is melting, the Siberian tundra is pumping out methane stored for millions of years. Sea levels are rising, ocean temperatures are off the chart, the world is heating up, just like our politics. Meteorological immigrants will destabilize the countries they move to, borders will close, walls will be built, nationalism will make us all xenophobes and racists.

Elon Musk wants to colonize Mars by sending transport spaceships each with one or two hundred pioneers. He plans to bio-engineer the next generations, humans more adaptable to life on another planet. With AI, who knows? The guy may actually pull it off. He says he wants to die on the Red Planet. I’m down with that, more room for me, more room for you. Just hope the Martians welcome immigrants.

I read today that the earth’s human population should peak at just under 11 billion of us in 50 years or so then start to decline. And that’s not counting all the Musk masses emigrating off planet. I’m not sure who does the calculations for half a century out but I won’t be here to fact check. 11 billion is a helluva lot of us, mostly crowded into coastal cities soon to be inundated by sea rise, high tides and storm surges. Kansas, get ready for urban refugees!

Today here it’s 85 degrees, the sun is warm, the mountains are hazy over a Puget Sound rippled by onshore winds, our garden is giving us dinner tonight, our insular little world seems like Paradise. What, me worry?

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