This blog can be viewed in its original format with pictures at www.crapwifeblog.co.uk and http://craphousewife.blogspot.com/

I return an hour later and as I approach the front door, I smell something a little off, but do not register that it is emanating from our house untilI open the door to find a houseful of thick, black, acrid smoke

and a dog with his tail between his legs. I quickly run through the smoke and briefly assess the situation--no flames, but floor is charred--and open the back door to let the dog out and catch a breath of fresh air.

At that moment, my front door bursts open and it is our neighbor who had been raking leaves in his back yard. He is yelling for me. I tell him I am fine, briefly explain what I know so far and go out the front to breathe again. A former volunteer fireman, he immediately noticed the smoke billowing out the back door when I opened it and with the fumes blanketing the neighborhood, thought I might have been down for the count inside.

Back inside, I quickly check the floor, see the paint stripper melted to the tiles and conclude that this was an Act of Dog. Dog, in this case, having accidentally stepped on the paint strippers switch, engaging the heat, igniting the cardboard box and scorching the floor. I open more windows and doors and then check to see if the floor is still hot. It is warm, but I feel confident the fire is out. I note the cord to the paint stripper has burned in half and think that that is a very good thing, as it probably is why we still have a house and dog and bird. Omigod, the bird!

It has probably been an hour since I returned home before I think of our cockatiel, Larry Bird, and I am afraid of what I will find in his cage in the living room. Visions of canaries in mines dance in my head as I run to check. Larry actually appears fine and I think I should move him out of the main smoke-filled areas. I decide on the basement, having been taught that heat (and therefore smoke) rises, I assume the basement would have the best air. It is too cold that night to put him outside. I open the basement door and more smoke billows out. Guess Larry wont go down there. But I do, thinking that I could have been wrong about the fire being out. Now I am thinking it burned through the floor to the basement ceiling or worse, to the area between ceiling and upper floor. I do a quick inspection in the laundry room and see no evidence of fire, just smoke.

I decide it is time to get Leonard on the phone and get him home from work.

I am spending my time going between the backyard for air (stinky though it is) and continuing to monitor the house. Before Leonard arrives, I notice that the can of paint thinner is all of one inch from the edge of the scorched flooring and the bottle of rubbing alcohol only a few inches away from that. Once again I am grateful to have a house.

We do not call the fire department. The fire is out and we are airing the house. My asthma has hit the big time by now and I have a headache. I keep telling Leonard, "You should have smelled it an hour and a half ago, if you think this is bad!" By this time, I located two fans and have them blowing smoke out the back door and the bedroom window. The temperature in the house is dropping and by bedtime it will be about 40 degrees inside. I sleep with the blankets over my head, not just for warmth, but to act as filters. In our heart of hearts, we know we should never have stayed in the house and I shudder to think what our lungs look like. Never having been smokers or coal miners, I still figure someone will be writing "lung cancer" or "black lung disease" on our death certificates some day.

Leonard takes the rest of the week off from teaching drivers education and we work at cleaning up. It eventually becomes obvious that we are making no headway. The more we clean, the more soot we find. As we dust one item off, soot is settling behind us. The fumes are still toxic and Leonard goes to buy masks. He wears one for a couple of days, I dont, feeling the damage has been done already. Obviously, the fumes affected my rational thought processes. We finally realize the situation is bigger than both of us and call the insurance company. Unbeknownst to us, that is when our troubles will start in earnest.

To be continued

Saw an online interview with Robbie Savage.I think Gary Speed is going for a young new team for the future in making Arsenal player Aaron Ramsey captain at age 20.Most of the rest of the team are young too.We're out of Euro 2012 anyway so build from scratch.Gareth Bale will be the future but for now I think Gary Speed is apeasing Harry Rednap in not risking his player in a no hope game.He's looking to the future again.The bright spot is that Miss Wales will sing the national anthem and she's as cute as Katherine Jenkins and is also going to teach the players how to understand the words and sing with the passion of a rugby player.Wonderful stuuf if it works.

Apparently there are only 3 Welsh players who understand Welsh.Les Jenkins.

Friday, 25 March 2011

YOU CAN ADD CRAPWIFE ON FACEBOOK BY SEARCHING FOR Daily CrapWife OR FOLLOW ON TWITTER@CrapWife

My kids and I found a BBC British history for kids page: http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/forkids/

which is actually pretty cool and materials are also available in Welsh. There are lots of activities on the page to print and do and links to history pages aimed at adults as well. We found this watching a youtube video for a kids show from the BBC "Hands on History."

Spring has come early in the Cambrian Mountains! A good rate of progress yesterday, with the electricians upgrading various bits of equipment and the 'old firm' working on scraping tattered paintwork after the severe winter.

Sad news about Liz Taylor. In the 1970's she was a regular visitor to the area as her son, Michael Wilding Jnr, lived in a happy hippy place called Ffynnon-wen at Ystumtuen. The 70's was like that in Mid Wales! All the older generations of local folk were still alive with the Welsh speaking communities still largely intact, but with a scattering of fascinating in-comers! It's not like that anymore and the area is split between the humdrum and the ultra-greens!!! Despite everything, the Welsh language survives, particularly in the remote farming communities. Long may it do so.

Anyway, back to the old mine and more paint scraping!

Peter

Not exactly misspent youthbut what happens when you dont misspend your youth enough and by default grow old enough for things like this to happen. True storyhappened in 2001.

Mona

4F: A Cautionary Tale

I am writing this all down, not so much as to tell a story or simply get this all off my chest (Lord knows, I need to keep what I have), or even earn Top Blogger points, but, rather, as a kind of public service announcement--a warning, if you will, to any other hapless individuals (and as you read, you will know who you are) who may find themselves in a similar situation.

First, I must introduce the characters. Besides myself,

the Innocent Bystander :

there is my husband, whom we will charitably call Leonard , since that is his name and this is a family show:

NOW

(can you pick him out of the line-up?)

and our dog Huckleberry , a lively coonhound/pointer mix of uncertain parentage, quite similar to Leonard, now that I think about it:

Leonard is what some might call a handyman or do-it-yourselfer, but certainly not anyone who has lived with him for 20+ years. When I am being kind, I prefer "procrastinator" and "an accident waiting to happen," if you get my drift. He is a former industrial arts teacher, grandson of a former industrial arts teacher; and is convinced he, and he alone, through the miracle of DNA, can handle any home repair project from plumbing to electricity, sometimes undertaking both tasks at the same time with shocking results. So, it follows that our house is always in some state between torn apart and nearly-but-not-quite finished, and I have 911 on my speed dial.

His current undertaking is kitchen remodeling. By "current,"you need to think in terms of geologic time. I mean this project was started 13 years ago and is now in its third incarnation. He has torn out a wall to open the space between the kitchen and living room, removed the original wallpaper and replaced it with paneling, installed some new cupboards (but never got around to finishing them off or installing the final countertop), removed said cabinets, which are now conveniently and attractively, I might add, stored sideways in the family room, replaced the original linoleum, and as recently as last May began replacing the tiles that had replaced the original linoleum in the early years of this project.

The first time he redid the floor, it went very quickly, a matter of no more than a week at most. Of course, he was 15 years younger and had the help of our teenage son. I was pleasantly surprised. This time around, things are not going so well, an understatement if I ever made one. It seems the years have added pounds and stiffness to my former football player/wrestler:

THEN

His knees are bad. His shoulders are bad. He is limited in what he can accomplish in one squatting. For instance, Labor Day weekend, he managed to lay four squares of new tile. As you can imagine, he was very worn out by this extreme burst of exertion and required heavy doses of football to recover his strength. (Labor Day is in September, mind you. See above for May reference.) I told him by time he finishes with the last tile, it will be time to start over again with the first. He did not find this as pithy as I did. Either that, or he didn't realize I was casting asparagus on his efforts.

Moving right along to October 30, his tools are on the kitchen floor just waiting to have something to do. Here's the process, finessed during weeks of sofa-sitting, picturing it all play out on the insides of his eyelids: In order to loosen the old tiles, he has been using a paint stripper to blow hot air on the tiles to soften the adhesive backing, which makes them easier to lift off the floor. For efficiencys sake, he devised a system whereby he places the paint stripper through a hole he has cut in a cardboard box, which is then placed over the next tile to come off. When the paint stripper is turned on, the hot air is contained inside the box, focusing it on the tile beneath. Once the tile is off, he expeditiously cleans any adhesive residue off the plywood underlayment with paint thinner and/or rubbing alcohol. On paper this seems like a plan:

So the scene is set for our little drama: Box over tile, paint stripper through hole in box and (this is important!) plugged into socket, paint thinner and alcohol nearby on the floor; dog is alone in the house, as husband has exited stage left and is at work and I went out to run an errand.

To be continued.

ORIGINAL BLOG FORMAT WITH PICTURES AT WWW.CRAPWIFEBLOG.CO.UK AND http://craphousewife.blogspot.com/2011/03/diary-of-crap-wife-yawn-poke-gag-scowl.html

Im having to be more covert in my attempt to break him.My mother in law arrived this afternoon and (although shes supportive of the campaign of torment I subject her only child to) it is difficult to get him to dunk his cock in a mug of ice-cold water (in return for access to the bed) when shes asleep in the next room.

Im not known for my subtlety (which is a shame because I wanted to be a spy) and the task is proving difficult.Im not really in a position at the moment to make him take his clothes off in the garden, and because of this Im having to break out the old faithfuls .

Old faithfuls like the yawn game.The yawn game is the simplest form of torture I have ever inflicted.Its so effective that he once told me that it was the most frustrating experience hes had in 30 years on the planet.

Then why did I stop doing it? I hear you ask.

Common sense.When I started the game we were dating, and if Id continued with it, Id never have got him down the aisle.This was around the same time Id started gaining weight, and torturing him before he needed a solicitor to leave me was simply not in my best interests.

I made the decision to retire the game and save it for another day.Like today.

Im going to share with you the genius that is the yawn game.Its a simple case of patience and perseverance.

First, you must ensure that you wake your victim about three times.There are many ways of doing this- I think I heard a burglar is by far the most effective.

When your victim is awake, you allow them to drop off to sleep... and then wake them again. Repeat this process 3 times and then engage them in a conversation about your feelings.

When they start yawning (which they will) poke your finger in their mouth thus making them gag and ensuring that they never complete a full yawn.

It sounds like nothing, but trust me, its the simplest, most effective ploy Ive found to date.

Husband tells anyone wholl listen that for the first year we were together I didnt let him yawn.This is true.Somewhere along the line though, hes forgotten how this made him feel.My previous hard work with the yawn game has become nothing more than an anecdote he tells our friends, hes forgotten the frustration.There was no burglar and he remembers now though.

Youre not starting this crap again, are you? he asked.

What crap? I dont know what you mean? What would you do if I died? Would you ever love again?

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

The not letting me yawn crap, you know what Im talking about. Dont you fucking dare.And Id be crushed if you died. You know that.

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

I tell him, If I died, I dont want you to be happy, mind.I want you to walk round with my ashes in yourmanbagcrying at strangers.

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

Seriously, dont start with the yawn shit again.I know what youre doing. He says .

I want to be buried when I die; I want Living in A Box played at my funeral. I want half the people to be told my last wishes were for everyone to dress in party gear, and the other half to be told to dress in black- that way half will think the other half have been disrespectful and therell be fights. I want fights at my funeral.

Yawn-BollockGrab (you cant be predictable)-Gag-Scowl.

If you start this crap up again then youll be put in a cardboard box withBoyzoneplaying while they burn you with matches.

This is offensive to me; Im not a fan ofBoyzone.

That wont happen, Ill text my sister my wishes and jump off a bridge to spite you.She wouldnt let me down.

Yawn-Poke-Grab-Scowl.

You're scared of heights and anyway, Ill over rule her and then Ill remarry achavto spite you. He says.

Fine, Ill haunt you and stick my finger up your bum before I put it in your mouth when you yawn. Says she.

Husbands getting cross. Im not having this conversation, I had 4 hours sleep last night, its half one and were up at five tomorrow.

Ok, Im sorry, Im not really starting the yawn game again, I just didnt want to sleep-Im upset because Im so fat, I feel really crap babe, Im sure that woman inWyevalewas laughing at me today. I feel really down.

Aww baby, dont be stupid, I love you just the way you are, youre beautiful, youre being silly

Yawn-Poke-Gag-Scowl.

Seriously, dont start with the fucking poking.

Shhhhhh, Husband, youll wake your mother.

YOU CAN ADDCRAPWIFEONFACEBOOKBY SEARCHING FOR DailyCrapWife OR FOLLOW ON TWITTER @CrapWife