The Old Schoolhouse has had its internal plumbing restored, and in celebration yesterday I took three baths and one and a half showers. Our tankless system is now based around a gas-fired heat-on-demand device rather than a laser-powered one. I would still recommend laser-powered heat-on-demand for bachelors, cottages, or anywhere else where you might reasonably be able to expect only one person to use the hot water at a time, in which circumstances it is quite economical. Should your needs require simultaneous uses of hot water, however, I can now tell you from sure experience that no laser-based system will cut the mustard as those hefty enough to handle dual loads put such a (seemingly exponential) strain on the electrical system that any hope of smaller utility bills quickly dwindles.
So, fuck that shit. Lasers suck.
We have opted to have this gas-fired system professionally installed after some unfortunate business with the last laser-powered install attempt that caused $500 of my blood, sweat and piles to be flushed down the drain with a mumbled apology. Infamous words of brilliant hindsight: "If I had known it would break, ja, I vould not have tvisted it so hard."
Who could argue?
The rub, of course, is that professionals cost more than amateurs. Amateurs you can buy a beer, but professionals want legal tender, and they'd prefer it now rather than later. Also, any old amount won't do -- they have a specific amount in mind and that's the only one they'd care to receive. Fortunately the lower-level dwelling parents-in-law will be contributing 17% of the cost...presumably because they only use 17% of the water. I'd ask for a more just deal but any such talk would only net me 17% less than I'm getting now, so I'm just going to keep my mouth shut. I've been down similar roads before, and I know where they inevitably end -- wiping flecks of somebody else's angry spittle off my face.
I bite my lip. Seventeen percent beats zero.
So now the waterworks are working but the washing machine's gone pouty and refuses to ever finish the spin cycle, spinning endlessly and complaining with electronic squawks should you try to pry the door open. Why does the household infrastructure hate me so much?
There is a heat wave underway across great swaths of this continent. We have officially given up on the top storey of the Old Schoolhouse and are currently living exclusively on the middle and lower levels -- the children sleep in the frigid meat-locker down below with the parents-in-law, while the milf and I are camping out in the ground-level living room. She sleeps on the couch and I sleep on a day-bed in her office just slightly shorter than I am tall. Sometimes in the night the rabbit jumps on my chest and sniffs my lips, which is a pretty weird way to wake up.
My car does not have air conditioning, so my ride to and from work is also a free sauna. I try to hide in the shadow of my GPS unit but the shadow is very small (whereas I am distinctly medium-sized). I cannot listen to my podcasts because the aux jack on my dashboard went kaput. I cannot be shocked, as I drive the cheapest car Korea offers. I'm just happy the wheels keep going around and around.
Toronto is encased in a dome of dirty grey smog. It smells like spicy throat tickling. People who live in the city tell me that they think the air quality isn't too bad, but I think all this demonstrates is a profound lack of perspective. I'm not someone you'd characterize as especially sensitive from a respiratory point of view, but I find the morning descent into this megatropolis like going spelunking on Venus: eyes burn, coughs come, nasal passages sting...
I can't wait for today's sweet moment -- the space between about 9:05 and 9:12 PM when the world exhales and the sun drops, and just before the humidity turns clammy the air feels the same temperature as blood.
On hot summer days I wear no shoes. This makes some people uncomfortable, though they are often loath to admit it. It can even make some people angry, though I fail to really understand why.
I'm told that feet are dirty, but they are certainly no dirtier than shoes -- without being boxed up inside a pair, my feet are neither sweaty nor smelly. In Canada, nobody asks you to remove your street shoes when you enter an office; the level of grime on the soles is considered acceptable and normal. Apply this same grime to skin, however, and now people are staring and whinnying about hygiene.
Why anyone in their right mind would want to wear socks and shoes during a heatwave is beyond the powers of my imagination. Certainly, nobody would contemplate wearing mittens on a day like this. I prefer to keep the bottoms of my feet exposed in order to make regulating my internal temperature easier on my body, for one thing, just as I keep my palms clear and avoid wearing a toque in July.
Never the less, many people have strong feelings about feet. I don't deny them their feelings or opinions. I do, however, take exception when they work under the mistaken impression that their opinion should compel me to new behaviour. Even when unable to rationalize their feelings, some people insist that the mere existence of their discomfort ought to be sufficient impetus for me to comply with their footwear ideal out of respect for their feelings.
Now, here's the thing about that: fuck no.
You see, it's one thing is someone can persuade me that their might be a sound basis to their objection, but it's another thing altogether when it admittedly comes down to a purely emotional experience of squeamishness they're not even sufficiently interested in to really analyze. As I get older I recognize that this makes me a kind of sociopathic monster, but the fact of the matter is the mere existence of somebody's irrational discomfort isn't particularly moving to me. After all, as a neurotic antisocial anxiety-ridden fool, there are many behaviours that others tolerate easily that I find highly abrasive -- and nobody gives a rat's ass. I fail to see why I should respect the whims of others when I'm man enough to keep my own whims to myself. I don't expect the world to accommodate every little feeling I have.
The trickiest people to deal with on this issue are those who won't admit that their discomfort is emotionally motivated. Instead, they insist that their objections are based on tangible, testable, unequivocal facts. Since most of these "facts" fail at the first blush of analysis, they invariably fall back on it being a "safety issue." What they're really concerned by is the possibility of my cutting myself, they insist. If I point out that my feet are too toughened from barefoot life to admit such cuts, they will have difficulty looking where I point. For all the hooplah it is obvious that the cornerstone of their cause is simply a culturally or experientially indoctrinated reflexive disgust of feet.
In the end, the only way to deal with such critics is to hop around after them, threatening to touch them with a bare toe.
Generally, a highlight of my day lately is having hot crazed-monkey sex with Littlestar. You might think I'd have bored of it after a decade or so, but I'm actually still fully into it. Of all my hobbies, it is frequently among the most rewarding. In fact, I'm fairly convinced that it just gets better and better.
She worries that all her recent shedding of pounds has unfairly diminished her bosom, but I'm not seeing anything worth complaining about. Granted, she may have lost some loll but the underlying architecture is quite sound and thus very nicely shaped. In fact, just a peek at her smiling cleavage can quickly put me in a mood to interface. There's no sense in lamenting the slight shrinkage of a breast that still commands that kind of calling power.
Also, there are more and varied forms of kissing than I had ever appreciated as a clumsy younger man. You can't always guess what time will teach you.
Ultimately, of course, teh sexiness is a state of mind more than a curve of body and it's all about how the milf uses what she's got. Each night before I fall asleep I thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster for granted me a wife who knows how to wiggle and moan. You can't take these things for granted, or next thing you know you're fucking a fur-lined motorized novelty product bought off a malware-infested website with a punny name.
So say we all.
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