A Man And His Deck, Part 1

This is a tale of a man and his deck.

One day, the man looked upon his decrepit deck and declared, "This shall be rebuilt." And he waited. And waited. And waited. Weeks turned into months. Months turned into years. His family grew in size by a third. And then, finally, upon the urging of his wife, the man looked upon the deck, now aged and nearly in ruins, and declared, "Now is the time."

So he began tearing the deck apart. He had no plan. And had few skills, except for a bit of overconfidence and a certain willingness to buy power tools, along with an adeptness at critiquing the work of his predecessors in the house. He could also unscrew a screw and remove a nail, which is all you really need when it comes to tearing apart a deck.

So he ripped and he twisted and he unscrewed and eventually the deck was nothing more than a pile of wood in his back yard and three old plastic containers of rusty screws.

"Now what shall I do?" the man asked, knowing that his deck-building skills are limited. "I know! I'll consult the Internet! And books! And I'll LEARN how to build a deck."

The man obsessed for days, reading articles on the Internet and books from the local home improvement store. He watched videos and risked jail time by staring at neighbors' decks a bit too closely. All of his studies said that that his deck would need ginormous concrete footings.

"And such footings shall be no shorter than the frost line in your area thus," the holy book of decks declared.

"The frost line? But I live in Minnesota! The frost line is halfway to China!" And, indeed, upon realizing that the frost line would require a four-foot hole, the normally solitary man consulted a friend, who helped dig the hole. "We need an auger!" the friend said. The friend, it seems, was even more obsessed with manly power tools than the normal male. And so on a weekend day they dug giant holes and risked heat stroke mixing concrete and pouring it into the immense void that they had dug.

All was going well, but the man was a proud man who could not follow directions for too long. He had read in each of his books that the "easy way" was to insert a bolt into the footings that could be used to secure the posts later on. "Bah," he said, "I'll drill the holes myself and insert concrete anchors."

And his friend, likewise, said that the man should insert the bolts. "No," the man said, "I'll drill. It'll only take me about a half-hour. Tops."

The footings were poured. The man was relieved. He waited the week that was recommended by his friend and the book, and then he went to his footings, armed with his drill and a brand new masonry drill bit. He drilled Hole No. 1, following the directions given by the bolt he purchased, and still the bolt would not go all the way into the hole. When he hit the bolt with his hammer, again according to directions, he only did damage to the nut, which would no longer come off the drill.

"I must drill deeper," the man said. And he did. Deep into the next footing he drilled, well past the length recommended by the bolt package. And when he was deep enough, the man put his drill in reverse and decided to get out.

And the drill got stuck.

He kept pushing. It wouldn't turn. He pressed again. Nothing. He pressed and he pulled and he twisted and then the drill began smoking and giving off a burned plastic smell. And still the bit wouldn't budge.

At this point, the man began cursing.

"What shall I do?" he asked his father-in-law, a wise sage when it comes to household projects.

"You need a better drill," the father-in-law said.

So the man and his willingness to buy power tools bought a better, more powerful drill. "I need a new drill, anyway," the man thought. He removed it from its package, plugged it in, popped it in the bit, tightened the chuck and pressed the button.

Nothing. Again and again, nothing. the bit wouldn't budge.

He cursed again. He tried again and again to remove the bit but nightfall came and so the man decided to wait until the next day. That's when his father-in-law inspected the damage and declared, "I have no idea what to do."

And then he said, "I'd never do concrete myself."

And also, "Your mistake is in not putting the bolt into the wet concrete in the first place."

Argh.

So the man spent two hours pulling and twisting the bit, using his drill, several wrenches and some liquid hand soap. He'd have used his teeth if they weren't being straightened by a dental instrument at the moment. And then, just before noon, the man pressed the button on his new drill and the bit spun and it spun and it came out.

The man felt like King Arthur.

But this is not the end of our tale. He bought a bigger, better bit and drilled even deeper into the same hole, then pounded the bolt into place -- and it wasn't deep enough. And, like the other bolt, it wouldn't come out. But unlike the other bolt, this one wouldn't take the nut, so he had one bolt with a nut that wouldn't come off, and one bolt with a nut that wouldn't go on.

Having learned his lesson, he finally drilled deep enough on the final three footings. But unable to use the previous bolts, he had to saw the exposed part of the bolts off, leave the rest in the concrete, and drill again.

With his holes drilled and his brackets attached, the man called it a day. And he would get his posts and boards up the next day, but the half-hour hole-drilling project took more like 10. He could have driven to Mount Rushmore in that time.

The moral of the story is, if you want to drive to Mount Rushmore, don't drill into concrete.

The Sequel: Trying To Finish Dad Off

In his six years on this earth my eldest boy has given me roughly 10 near heart attacks. He's dived off of platforms to the gasp of guests. He's jumped off other things. He's climbed atop others. He's used me as his personal jungle gym. And he's darted out into traffic.

But, as it seems, he's the cautious one.

To wit: We went to a community pool this weekend, because I needed a heavy dose of chlorinated child urine and because I consider hearing to be overrated. I also enjoy getting sunburned in front of disinterested teenage lifeguards.

(I'm pretty sure that the lifeguards wear those mirrored sunglasses to hide the fact that most of them are sleeping; I swear I saw one drooling and snoring as I passed him on the lazy river this weekend; then again, there are those power-mad kids who overuse their authority as lifeguards in a misguided effort to attract women, either that or they love blowing whistles, but I'd rather have the half-dead, zombie-like lifeguards that most of them are; not that I can blame them for their boredom; I can't imagine how dull that job is, sitting in the sun watching fat people splash around while their kids spread e.coli.)

The pool included one indoors, so you can swim in the middle of winter and not die of hypothermia, and one outside so you can get skin cancer in the summer. The indoor pool included a big water slide, because that is a prerequisite to having a pool in Minnesota. If it doesn't have a big water slide, it'll be considered substandard and then all the kids will ridicule said pool forever, regardless of whether that pool is at a hotel or in your backyard. And thus nobody will use it, except bugs and leaves and drunks searching for a bathroom.

My eldest loves slides. I've seen him go down slides a million times. And I know he loves sliding into water, because he's done that since the day he first stepped into a pool. So I tried convincing him to go on the big water slide.

"No."

No?

"I'm afraid."

Afraid?

"I don't want to go."

And so he wouldn't, no matter how much I tried to talk him into it, and even when I assured him that I'd be down there at the bottom to catch him. And never mind that he has some modest swimming skills, and could stand in the water, anyway. "It's too big," he said. But you've gone on big slides before. "But those didn't twist around like that." But you've gone on a million twisty slides. "But, but, but ..."

I tried convincing him because I knew he'd love the slide once he tried it, and because then I could go with him -- and I KNOW I'd love the slide. But, alas, he did not go. And so we spent most of our time floating down the lazy river, where I got to parade my pasty white torso in front of hundreds of fellow pool goers, most of whom are probably suffering from some eye damage now.

Meanwhile, in another part of the pool, the no-depth area for toddlers, The Wife was watching The Sequel. It's times like these when I'm glad The Sequel is a mama's boy. I hate toddler areas. Because you're wet, you're also cold, but the water is shallow, so you have to lay down to keep from freezing to death. And in the shallow area there is less water to dilute the various bodily fluids being excreted.

Anyway, this toddler area included a small slide. And my youngest was keeping his mom occupied by repeatedly climbing up the slide and then sliding down. He went, according to The Wife, "850 times."

When you slide down a single slide into water that much, after, say, No. 700, you get a little bored with the same-old, feet-first, butt-down approach. And so he wanted to go face-first, butt-up, never mind that he'd end up dunking himself into water at the bottom of the slide -- if his mom didn't stop him first. She also stopped him when he tried sliding down while standing. And then he got bored with that slide altogether, so he tried jumping in the deep end.

And then he tried going to the stairs so he could try the big slide that his brother refused to use.

Fantastic.

All this means that I'd better get a good cardiologist. Because if my careful, non-death-defying eldest boy has driven me near death, there's no telling what kind of health problems I'll have as my thrill-seeking youngest ages.

My Great, Big, Dorky Deck

(Note: I've updated this blog post to correct about 500 billion typos; I think I literally screamed when I re-read this the day after posting and discovering that my post looked like it was written by a drunk man on crack. To which most of you will probably now think, "But that's how it normally reads ...")

We have two decks in our house. One we use, and another we ignore. The one we use is off the kitchen, which we frequent, usually while fully dressed. That deck contains a grill and a smoker and some furniture and is shielded from the elements by something called a roof. But if it weren't for the outdoor cooking appliances we'd never go out there.

The other one is off the master bedroom. It has a nice view. But it doesn't have a grill or a smoker and thus we rarely use it.

In addition, the deck isn't exactly level, unless you consider a "U" to be level.

Actually, it's an L-shaped deck that wraps around the back corner of the house, and it's more like a roller coaster than a U. It also has a privacy panel that looks like it's falling off. The railing is shakier than San Francisco on New Year's Eve. Some of it is painted blue, some of it isn't. Only part of the deck that isn't painted blue is deliberate -- some of that blue paint peeled off long ago. Given some of the building, uh, "standards" the farmer who built this house used, the paint is probably made of lead, meaning that soon me or my kids will grow another head or something.

By the way, some day, someone will have to explain to me why on earth anybody would paint a deck; and don't say, "because it looks better," because it's not true; I just think people like to undertake massive painting projects every few years. But if you look at this deck closely, you can find a reason why the builder painted it -- along two sides of the deck are nails that had been pounded through from the other side, then hammered down flat, so the exterior of my deck is lined with dozens of flattened nails painted blue.

After four years of ignoring this deck, I decided to fix it this summer, mostly because The Wife kept telling me to repaint it. I made my final decision to fix the deck during a fit of activity in the midst of one of the kids' meltdowns when I went out back with a hammer and started knocking part of the deck down.

(By the way, any time you're looking for a bit of stress relief, I'd highly recommend taking a hammer to a wooden structure, like a deck or a fence or Al Gore.)

The deck project has hung over my head for years, but I never took it on because I'm cheap and I'm scared to death of such major carpentry projects. For years, the most I've done with a saw and some wood was to construct a large, stand-alone planter box that was so heavy I had to put it on wheels to get it anywhere. A deck is much bigger and more complicated and, unlike a planter, holds something that could land in a hospital or a courtroom -- people. I'm pretty sure that if I tried building a deck it would ultimately look like it belonged in a Tim Burton movie.

But I'm also male, and thus proud, and I feared that if I took on the deck project I'd end up calling The Guy With The Nailgun. This can be a handyman or a family friend who comes to your house, looks at whatever project you're screwing up on, and fixes it in 10 minutes with his nailgun. Yes, he's fixed your deck or fence or shed, but he's permanently damaged your pride in the process. I'm scared of that guy.

Still, I have to admit to some overconfidence following my spring construction of a wooden playset. I also thought that the deck would be a fairly simple project: Remove the railings, remove the nails, make it level, rebuild the railing, done in a week.

Ha. I knew from the get-go that something would go wrong that would turn this simple project into something more. That's the reality with home projects -- nothing, and I mean nothing, goes to plan. Don't believe me? Watch a couple perform some renovation project on HGTV. Something always goes wrong. That something gets the husband angry and results in a missed deadline while providing TV producers the drama they need. If I didn't experience this myself on a regular basis, I'd think those producers deliberately sabotaged renovation projects in the name of ratings.

I thus figured out long ago that it's wise to double or, better yet, triple your planned project time, especially given that it's me, and as I've said, I'm no carpenter. So when one of the posts designed to hold up the deck, and which I thought was secure in concrete in the ground, hit me in the head, I didn't really bat an eye. I didn't think much when the other fell, either, other than, "That post shouldn't do that."

Alas, it did -- the builder simply placed the posts atop shallow concrete footings that over time sunk into the ground while the bottom of the posts rotted. According to all the How To Build A Deck sites and books I've memorized in the past few days, I can tell you that this was bad. Really bad. So bad that I should probably be thankful that my deck didn't collapse. Which means I should be thankful I didn't spend any time on said deck. Or invite any people on it.

So now my simple project is much more complicated, and will eat up what's left of my summer freetime. But I'm still not calling for the guy with the nailgun.

Trust me, that picture is NOT my deck. I got that photo from here.

Beware The Darting Toddler

I had to change my oil this evening. I could do this myself, but if I did do this myself I would put the responsibility off by another three months. As it is, The Van is already a bit overdue -- sure, there's that sticker in the corner of my windshield with a reminder written poorly in black marker, but much like the railroad tracks I used to live in front of, I've learned to tune that sticker out.

The simple fact is, it's just easier to go have somebody else do it. Then all I have to do is fend off the mechanic, who is usually heavily trained in annoying, pressure-filled sales tactics. I have to practice my "No!" saying skills at least three days in advance of an oil change to avoid paying the equivalent of Belize's GDP in various "suggested preventive maintenance" items. "Yes, my air filter looks like the mudpie my six-year-old made the other day, but I'm not giving you $30 just to stick another one in there, I'll do it myself. Eventually."

But it's a small price to pay to avoid having to get under a car held up only by some precarious jack. And I have small children running around, and it's an inevitability that one of them will want to join me under my oil-soaked van. And it's one thing to be paranoid about yourself being crushed by a minivan, it's something else entirely to fret about your offspring being pancaked by a grocery getter. No thanks.

On this day, however, I might have made the wrong decision bringing the van in.

Normally, I go by myself. But The Wife had a "meeting" at somebody's "house" with an organization dubbing itself the "PTA," which I can't help think stands for "pain in the ass," though in reality, that would be PITA. It may also stand for Pretty Tough Aardvarks, but The Wife insists it stands for "Parent Teachers Association" and that it does "important things" for "The Boy's school."

This left me caring for the boys, and I stupidly brought them with me to the dealership where I get my oil changed.

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

The eldest was fine, because his eyes instantly became glued to the television. The youngest, however, decided that he would much rather be anywhere than in his prescribed seat -- in the new car show room, inside the new cars, up the employee-only staircase, outside playing in traffic, toying around with the things that screw the lug nuts in, etc. Mostly, he ran away from yours truly.

It went something like this: The youngest would dart into the showroom. I'd chase him down, bring him back to our seat in the waiting room, let him take a bite of his snack and a drink of water, and then I would try to hold him. He'd squirm and start squealing. I'd put him down, fearing the dreaded tantrum, then off he'd go. "Get back here!" I'd bark. He'd only turn back, giggle gleefully, and start off in the opposite direction, resulting in a groan from me as I got to fetch him.

I did this over and over again. And when I was done I'd do it again. When I got sick of it I took him outside, which was a problem because this was an auto dealership, so outside was full of cars that he NEEDED to see THAT VERY MINUTE. And not while being carried around by his old man. So back into the waiting area we went, and the sequence started again. I might have run the equivalent of a 10K.

Toddlers are amazing people. They are irresistibly cute, such as when they begin talking. The Sequel says parent-melting things like "popcuhn" (popcorn), "daddy wuhkeen" (daddy working) and "baby vroom" (what he calls a stroller). They giggle and laugh and wave and hug and cuddle with you. But then they have intense tantrums. And they dart out in random directions.

I can almost -- almost -- handle the tantrums, but it's the darting everywhere without regard to parental sanity or his own personal health and welfare that gets me. Sometimes, he likes walking into the street, and then down said street, just for fun. Mostly, he watches us and waits for the split second when we turn our head away. Then he darts off, and in a second he's in some far-off and usually dangerous place. Giggling.

At least this evening The Sequel usually wasn't in immediate danger of being run over by a car -- I was mostly worried that he'd be run over by bad sales pitches and greasy used car salesman jokes.

The worst part is that most of the people in that waiting room almost certainly wondered why on earth I can't control my child, never mind that one of them was sitting peacefully in his seat, even if he was zombified by electronic entertainment.

In the end, they finished my van. They gave it a wash, but I refused to let the car wash guy dry it. I just tossed the kids in, demanded that the eldest buckle his seat belt, and then said a rousing hallelujah that my 75 minutes of torture was over.

Testing The Insanity Point

Here is a typical conversation between me and The Boy:

The Boy: Can I have a Jolly Rancher?

Me: No. You didn't eat your dinner.

The Boy: Can I have a Jolly Rancher?

Me: No.

The Boy: Can I have some popcorn?

Me: No. Quit asking.

The Boy: Can I have some popcorn mixed with a Jolly Rancher?

Me: No. And that's gross. And if you ask me again you won't get any popcorn OR Jolly Ranchers for the rest of your life, even if I have to move in with you after you leave home, then haunt you after I'm dead. I SAID NO TREATS!

To some people, mainly non-parents who've spent a grand total of 5 seconds with a child younger than 18 since the day they turned 18, the word "no" is a magical, two-letter word that can immediately take care of all the woes associated with parenting. And, by extension, every other problem in the world, too. If more parents just said "no" to their spoiled little brats from time to time the housing market would not have crashed, there would be no poverty, there would be peace in the middle east and Osama bin Laden would happily be running the family construction company.

To which I think, "I have to say 'no' more often?"

If I said "no" any more I'd say little else. "Hi dad!" No. "Dad, what's for dinner?" No. "Dad, can you help me with my homework?" No. "Dad, where do the Northern Lights come from?" No. "Dad, mom says you're not a Russian spy. Is she correct?" No. "Dad, would I get in trouble if I stole your credit card and used it to buy a bunch of Star Wars toys and a wagon full of liquor?" No.

The truth is, at some point in their young lives, kids figure out that if they ask for something repeatedly, over and over again, and over again, and over again, their parents will eventually become insane. True, it's a risky move. An insane parent can do something like ban a child from television until they turn 315 years old. But it's highly unlikely that a parent will remember such a grounding for that long. And it's entirely possible that the insane parent will do something the child would consider beneficial, like stupidly blurt out, "OK, OK, YOU CAN HAVE A DAMNED JOLLY RANCHER NOW GET OFF MY BACK ALREADY!" Every parent has an insanity point. The important thing is to make sure that you don't give in once you've reached it.

At one point, I thought that only my child begged repeatedly. But then I spent a day with a bunch of little 6-year-olds at The Boy's birthday party and was on the receiving end of an onslaught of little inquiries. And then we let The Boy bring a friend along with us to the zoo and I got a day full of requisitions in stereo. I kept saying various forms of no -- no, nada, uh uh, nope, no way, forget about it, talk to the hand, nein, nyet, 毋, etc. But the more I said no, the more they asked for the same thing, like the denial only gave them more power. Fortunately, the power of baby dolphins distracted them and kept me from reaching insanity, which would have been bad. I was in a zoo, after all. Somebody might have mistaken me for a monkey.

By the way, if somebody does happen to know a magical parenting word -- donut? fester? snugglebottom? boogers? -- I'd like to know what it is. I'd even take a magical parenting sentence. Or something physical, like magical parenting fairy dust, but I'm afraid that the latter would be something called "crushed Valium."