Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

Normally this time of year brings good tidings of great joy. Tonight, however, was filled with dreadful tidings of great woe.

In years past erecting the Christmas tree was a jolly time, a satisfying time, a simple time. I would cut an inch off the bottom of the trunk, place the tree into a properly sized stand, make a few tweaks and voila! a symbol of the holidays ready to be decorated.

This year was not such a year.

With the intention of quick, straight forward setup we'd follow the model of years past (see paragraph 2). My father's insistence on using the stand that had a single metal post in the middle was an ominous foreshadow. OK, I thought, let's give it a try. So we started with the normal procedure; cut off one inch from the bottom to allow for renewed turgor. This is where things really took a turn for the worse. The saw - aged 15 years - was as sharp as the keys in my pocket. After a few minutes and only half an inch of depth I went on the prowl for a larger and sharper saw. No where to be found. Then my dad said something about a saber saw. I think about it for a minute wondering where he's been hiding a saber saw all these years.

"What's a saber saw," I ask him probing to find out what a saber saw is in his vernacular.

"It's that saw in the bag there on that second shelf," he said pointing to a handsome canvas bag containing a reciprocating saw my brother and I gave him for Christmas last year.

"Oh, you mean the Sawzall," I said, somewhat surprised that this was his idea of a saber saw. Bless his heart.

Okay, now we're getting somewhere. It's atypical for my dad to recommend a power tool when a good hour of massaging a saw through a solid tree trunk will do. Let's give it a try! I pulled out the saw and looked in the canvas bag for a blade. Metal saw blade, no good. Ah, there it is, wood cutting blade - a four inch wood cutting blade. Hmm, the trunk is six inches in diameter. This will take some creative cutting. I set the blade in the shallow cut I started earlier and pull the trigger. At first it cut well. Then it's shortness and dullness began to win. The moist wood clogged the blade and it was difficult cutting only a portion of the trunk. After a few rotations of the tree to make a cut all the way around I finally had separation. It was by no means a pretty cut. Multifaceted, yes. Pretty, no.

After this small feat we carried it into the house (oh, did I mention we're doing all this in sub-freezing temperatures with a good stiff breeze). We swung the front door open and dragged the tree through the doorway casting needles in our wake. I took the tree and my dad maneuvered the tree stand guiding the hole in the trunk over the spike in the stand. It slid in easily. As I started to let go I noticed it began leaning to one side. At first I was afraid it was going to tip over but gently I let go and it stayed "upright." We stepped back taking in the spectacle. It must have been tilted a good 20 degrees to the starboard. Maybe a little twisting and rocking will set her straight. Nope.

"I think the hole was drilled crooked. I never have trusted those hasty tree lot drillings, they never work," I said with condescending glee, happy to take any jab at that stupid tree stand's inherent flaw.

"Maybe we should drill another one," my dad said trying to stand up for his little friend.

"Do we even have a drill bit big enough?"

"Ya, I bought some new ones a few days ago."

In the garage I spotted the new spade style drill bits. These actually look pretty sharp compared to the discount-bin bits he usually buys. We grabbed a three quarter inch bit and headed inside. The new hole will have to be close to the edge of the trunk since the "factory" hole was right in the center. So I planted the point into the wet wood and begin to drill. I could hear that satisfying cutting sound indicative of a brand new quality drill bit. It felt good. I made the hole about four inches deep.

We lifted the tree back up and slid it down over the metal post. Fits great! As we let go of the tree it began to list to the side as bad as it did before. In my disgust I force it to one side when I heard a heart sinking snap! Did I just bust through the trunk? Did I break the stand (oh please, oh please)? My dad checked for damage but finding none we both stood back and beheld our poor little leaning Christmas tree.

"We need a wedge or something," I declared with heady optimism in my voice.

"To put under the stand?" My dad asked.

"No, to wedge under the trunk," I said in an effort to keep all modifications hidden from view.

"Do you want a cedar or redwood one?" True to his make-all-projects-last-the-eternities credo.

"I don't care, it's only got to last a couple of weeks," I said as I twirl the tree hoping it will right itself.

Moments later he walked in with the mangled piece of trunk we cut off earlier. At first I was upset with his choice but then I noticed the multiple facets the undersized "saber saw" blade had made. I bet I could wedge this in. AND it's tree trunk so it should last, no problem. If only this were the case. After futzing, twirling, wedging and still more twirling the tree stood no better.

Fine, I'll go to the garage and find something myself. By this time I was starting to wonder why the food hadn't kicked in yet. Out in the garage I sifted through piles of sundry scraps and fragments of boards. Nothing was really calling out to me. So I gathered a few thin pieces of wood thinking I could mix and match a few scraps together to prop up the tree. All the while my dad was looking for cedar or redwood to cut on the table saw to make a proper wedge. I tell him what I found would work. Back into the warmth of the house; at least there was this to look forward to.

This time I yanked the tree all the way out of the stand and placed the scraps where the side of the tree trunk would angle up. We guided the tree back onto the stand. A twirl here, a twirl there and it's... standing a little more vertically. Then, in desperation I asked for a 2X4. My dad knew exactly what I was thinking. He returned from the garage with a couple of boards to stick under the stand itself. Getting closer but still no cigar.

"Let's throw this out by the street and get a new one," my dad said, in an uncharacteristically wasteful way.

"Really? We can't make this one work?"

"It's not worth it. Even if we did get it to stand straight as soon as we start decorating it it will start to lean again or the kids will knock it over," he said with conviction.

"What if we got some braces or something to prop it up with? We can hide it behind the branches or something," I said in a futile attempt far one last "Mickey Mouse" fix.

"No let's just get a new one. We'll take my car since I've already got rope in it from carrying this tree."

Somewhere inside me I could tell he was dissatisfied with this tree from the get go. It wasn't the tilt and the unending frustration trying to make it plumb. I could tell there was something else.

So as is usual for an anger project we found ourselves at The Home Depot. We quickly walked through the picked over stands of trees. Some were too small, some were too big, some looked like they fell off one truck and were picked up by the next. It wasn't looking too promising. Our mission was to find one about six or seven feet tall, plumb, and evenly foliated. Few trees fulfilled even just two of the requirements. So with our heads hanging down we walked to the car to drive to the next tree lot. But, as we drove past the main entrance I noticed three lovely display trees in all of their evenly foliated, plumb and six to seven foot glory!

"Do you think they'll sell us one of these really nice ones?" I asked assuming my dad wouldn't want to put anyone out by taking their "nice" ones.

"This one looks nice," he said while looking back at the garden center where one of the clerks was cleaning up for the night.

"I'll go pay for it," he said, already walking away.

So there I stood, with our car parked in the fire lane [an absolute pet peeve of mine when people park there]. I tried to look nonchalant, like I had no part of the rudely parked white Subaru. As I walked around looking at wreaths with phony interest the garden center guy (let's call him Arthur) came rumbling up with a cart to put the tree on.

"This sure is a nice one," I said in a vain and round-about compliment to Arthur.

"Yep," he grunted as he tipped the tree over to remove the very thoughtfully placed tree stand.

I could tell that they didn't really plan on selling this any time soon. I wonder what my dad said to make him to drag a cart all the way to the other end of the store, remove the stand he himself probably put on and then make him put a whole new tree back to fill the gap. Oh well, at least we were getting a really nice tree.

Back at the other end of the store we hefted it up on top of the Subaru. Instantly Arthur told us it's too "puffy."

"Let me take it back and wrap it for ya," he said in a half friendly, half just let me go home for the night, tone.

"Alright," I said, half curious to see how exactly he was going to wrap a tree - especially since he wanted to end his shift and we were the only customers around.

He wheeled the cart to a table created from built-up pallets. On top of table was bolted a tree wrapping device. The device was basically a large ring about two or three feet in diameter and about 8 inches wide. Loaded onto this ring was a big fishnet sausage casing-like material. He took the tree and inserted it into the ring. Then he tied a knot in the fishnet and pulled the tree all the way through the ring, all the while the fishnet was encasing the tree. At the end he cut the net and tied another knot. It left us with a nice neat Christmas tree bundle.

We put the neat little bundle on top of the car. As my dad began to search for the rope in the car Arthur produced about 30 feet of twine quite miraculously. I'm still not quite sure where he got it from so quickly. He tied a good sturdy double overhand knot on one end of the car rack. Then, with a rather flamboyant motion, he tossed the other end over the tree where my dad was at the ready to tie the twine to the rack. In typical bamboozling fashion he began to create a finely crafted knot complete with friction modifiers, half hitches and some techniques I never knew existed. Meanwhile Arthur stood fidgeting, just wanting to get the damn tree tied down so he could leave. Finally my dad finished his masterwork and he tossed the end of the rope back over the car so it could be tied again. He's nothing if not thorough.

"How far do you have to go?" Our Home Depot ambassador asked half hoping we'd tell him only a couple miles. This way he can tie his last knot in haste.

"Only a couple miles. Four or five, tops," I said, trying to make him feel better.

"Ya, this will work," he said reassuringly.

"Great! Thanks for your help!" I cheerfully exclaim.

"Merry Christmas!" Arthur said as he walked away.

My dad and I got back into the car and drove away. I feel a wave of relief wash over me as I realize this tree is the one. It's got great foliage, it looks plumb, and the trunk is narrow enough to fit into a proper Christmas tree stand - the kind with the clamps you screw onto the trunk to hold it upright.

"This tree looks much better anyway. I've never really liked those thick bushy ones your mom always wants," my dad said, with an ever so slight tinge of vengeance in his voice.

That's it! That's why he gave up relatively easily with the other tree. He had it in for that poor little tree from the beginning. I could sense his satisfaction for ending up with the tree HE wanted. I was proud of him. The only thing left was explaining the fiasco to my mother. Oh well, that too will sort itself out.

When we pulled into the driveway the glee coming from my dad was almost palpable. As he reached for the knots to undo them I reached for a razor blade. Within moments the tree was free. We carried it to the front porch and set it down. Then I walked inside and yanked the old, heavy and disagreeable tree from the stand and carried it outside. I threw it to the ground and wiped my hands. I then removed the fishnet cover from the new tree. The tree stand went on perfectly. We carried our prize inside and placed it in the corner of the room.

"Perfect! Look at that, it's perfectly straight, first try!" I proclaim to a smiling father.

"Dear, come look at this," my dad called to my mom. He beamed, standing transfixed as he waited for her to come in.

"That looks nice. I don't know why you couldn't get the other one to work," she said, half pleased and half disappointed.

"It wasn't worth it," my dad said without missing a beat.

"Well maybe we can give the old tree to someone in the ward who needs it," my mom said, surprising me that she seemed OK with the new arrangement. "Or we can put it outside and put lights on it."

That sounded like a good idea to me.

So after about two hours of holiday heartache we had a perfectly plumb Christmas tree in our living room. We also had crooked and heavy tree sitting on the front porch where it has remained, untouched, for the past 3 days.

Merry Christmas!

A Vengeful Nemesis Lurks Below + Mystery Ingredient

Required Starting Materials

1. An old kitchen
2. No tools, save a girly car kit (because so-and-so will bring all the crowbars, sawsalls, everything)
3. No dust mask
4. Safety glasses, duh
   

Prep Work

You dutifully turn the water shut off valves, then find the solitary small crescent wrench. The wrench will only remove the water supply lines from the shut off valves because the wrench is too small for the end attached to the sink. Your Norm-Abram-Intuition hints that this is not the best idea, but you proceed. True to form, the shut off valves have fulfilled their duty of not completely shutting off, and water leaks from one and sprays from the other. You reattach the supply hose to the valves and pointlessly try to find another wrench large enough to remove the end attached to the sink. Naturally you do this so you can perch the ends of the hose over a trash can to collect the dripping water until the new pluming is in.

There is of course no bigger wrench so you do what any hangry person would do and reach for the remaining kitchen knife and hastily slice the hoses up near the sink. Slicing the second one, you realize, wow, this is quite a bit of water spraying all over your face and crotch. Your instincts kick in again and you quickly kink the thick plastic, stemming the spray. Fortunately there remains a roll of packing tape on the desolate counter top within arms reach as you pinch the slippery kinked hose. With only one had to spare you bite down on the end of the tape roll and pull back on the dispenser to get enough tape to wrap the kinked end of hose. After you've managed to cut the tape and remove a large chunk of your chapped lips you realize that when wet, packing tape is rendered instantly useless. You make a quick calculation (based on what room below is about to sustain some ceiling damage) that it's better to let some water slide down than remove another layer of skin from your now bleeding lips. You happily discover that enough wet packing tape can be used as a primitive twine to hold a kinked water supply hose. Cut, kinked and dripping ends are placed over a trash can to fill.

Stall more by removing sundries such as paper towel racks and light fixtures that you know should be left on the soon-to-be-obliterated cabinets on their way to the dump. Finally go get your own dang tools that you knew you should have brought in the first place.

The Demolition

1. Wield crowbar.
2. Remove kitchen.
3. Feel remorse for tearing out such stout craftsmanship (hundreds of hand-nailed 3-4 inch nails holding the solid wood cabinets together).
4. Inhale unholy amounts of horrible dust and insulation.

The Floor

The entire time you've been prepping for and executing the demolition, dread has been building for the floor removal. First, ensure that the floor is created of the following layers.

The Layers:

1. Ceramic tile
   
2. Quarter-inch ply
3. Linoleum
   
4. Quarter inch ply

The Plan:

1. Insert crowbar
2. Remove floor "...in big chunks -- when we get under that bottom ply, it'll come right up..."

With the third hammer of a finishing crowbar you have a sudden realization about that little line on the estimate entitled "demolition", and how good of a deal it would have been. After 10 sweat-filled minutes of earplugless-sledgehammer-on-crowbar nastiness, having removed a noteworthy 3-4 square inches, you realize this isn't going to come up in three or four giant chunks.

The Discovery (aka, The Real Layers)

1. Nigh-indestructible ceramic tile from the 60s(?).
2. Mortar
3. Quarter-inch ply, screwed down every 4-5 inches
4. Glue
5. Linoleum
6. Glue
7. Quarter inch ply (?) nailed down every 5-6 inches
8. Subfloor, soon to be removed of its structural integrity

Kneeling, sans knee-pads dodging the pincushion of nails and screws trying to work their way into your patella, you realize that you are in for one hell of an afternoon. Potential excuses race through your clouded mind. These pathetic ideas make no sense ("...sick kid? -- I don't even have a kid?!") due to the low blood sugar. You foolishly decide to proceed by harnessing the escalating hanger and channeling it through the jimmy bar like a lightning rod at your new nemesis.

Each inch of progress you fight with your entire body, wrenching the crowbar with all your might. Dust collects on the sweat-covered-dust that covers your body. Minutes pass as you slowly uproot the detestable floor. While unsure of the time, it seems about 30 minutes have passed and two of you have removed one row of tile.

One. Row.

You miraculously resist the urge to run any calculations based on the remaining rows in the kitchen, which once seemed so tiny, now mentally transformed into a near infinite plane of black-and-white-checkered splintering torture. The fury continues as crowbars are pounded between the layers of this nightmare lasagna.

Note: To add to the fun of this process, ensure you have a fridge and stove, which by some Douglas-Adamsian travesty of space and time will not fit through either exit of the kitchen. These of course must be moved around so you can remove the floor under them. Ergo, you must unfurl destruction within the confines of a tetris game closing in on you, the worry of damaging pristine appliances with one errant swing of the sledge-wielding wrist ever present. Carry on.

You think maybe a different approach is in order so you wield Vinny (the sledgehammer) with retribution on the tile. This deafening deluge of rage obliterates rows of tile, leaving the dust-filled air with the smell of flint. Surely having the tile gone will help, you think to yourself. At first it seems that by having the tile removed the death plys come up with less brutality, but upon further rumination, there is really no difference save that the satisfaction of destroying the tile provides an intermittent break between the real torture of crowbar-ing.

You end up with three crowbars to share between two people, one actually large enough to provide enough leverage to be somewhat beneficial. The other two smallish prybars, useless against this foe, end up only used by the person not employing the hefty one as an unspoken empathy device as if to communicate "brother, I feel your pain and I'm right here with you." You simply put in your time with the useless ones attempting to appear as if progress is being made until the other person casts down the good one in disgust. You take your turn slamming the bar under the plys, more often than not having your nerves electrified and hands walloped as you hit with full force an unseen nail or screw rather than delivering the blow to the actual ply. You simultaneously curse the builders and feel the guilt you'll have caused future remodelers as you think of subfloor you've layed with a similar amount of screws. The work is punishingly slow and requires more strength than you contain. When rarely you have a non-nail hit, you pry with all the strength in your body with the expectation that surely, this time a bigger chunk will loosen. You are however unsurprised as either the ply splinters or subfloor cracks, plys intact.

As the turns progress with the unspoken agreement, the rare instance of a reasonable size piece begins to lift. Reasonable that is, compared to a pocketful of slivers. You lunge for the cresting chunk grabbing, wrenching and gyrating with full body force as the other prys from below. Naturally you end up on your back in a pile of tile shards, slivers penetrating the new holes in your gloves, but triumphant as a you hold a 9 inch fragment of the scourge.

You marvel at the mystery of how when converting a floor to shrapnel, the largest pieces no more than a few inches across, the energy, effort and muscle required is so vast and unexpected. As you try to daydream yourself out of this backbreaking existence, you begin to appreciate the true atomic strength of materials. You even think that Dante might have missed a circle.

Epilogue, A Time for Heros

The best part of the ordeal? You just spent hours hunched over writhing with crowbars on the ground, your back to a crowd of girly-girl onlookers, both friends and strangers. You arrive home exhausted and coughing like a 50-pack-year-smoker, a triumphant warrior of perseverance. You have done the impossible. As you strip for the much needed shower the herculean pride you deservedly feel vanishes as you discover the final mystery ingredient of this story:

A 10-12 inch crotch-to-belt split right in the butt what formerly qualified as pants.

Digital Signage

Thinking that a trip back into computer-support-land would be a jolly change of pace from my normal work, I hapilly embarked on the simple task of setting up an MVIX 760hd hard-drive based, wireless, usb, remote controlled device to display marketing materials on a TV for the company.

Five and one half hours later I've gotten it to play one mp3, a few pictures of such quality to make youtube on a cell phone runing EDGE covered in vaseline look like Planet Earth in comparison. To do the world a service, I will translate the text from the product site.

Experience a hi-definition media file playback and take your audiovisual experience farther than ever before. 

Further, that is into blurrier and lower definition territory that you can imagine.

The Mvix™ Wireless High-Definition Multimedia Center (MX-760HD) provides an unprecedented file format support and literally puts life back in your digital media content.

This piece of plastic $&#! supports 240x320 mpegs only. However, after playing one a few times, you must reboot.

This hard drive-based multimedia center, built around linux-based architecture is a true home-theater PC offering endless possibilities.

Endless possibilities such as throwing it through your TV, punching it to oblivion, using it as a doorstop, feeding it to a sand worm, getting your blood pressure so high you need medication.

The Mvix™ Hi-Def 802.1G Multimedia Center links to your home network and plugs all your digital media content directly into your TV. You can now access all your multimedia files (music files, videos, and photos) and play it on your large-screen plasma or HDTV. It features the wireless 802.11g technology with WEP infrastructure to deliver maximum wireless signal rates (of up to 54 Mbps) for streaming digital media.

Windows only. Streams faster than a pony expressman's trip on a two legged dead horse across the Atlantic*. *Only applies when the Atlantic is more viscous than sub-zero honey.

The Mvix™ player supports over two dozen media formats, including high-definition video (WMV-9 or MPEG-4 format).

Supports Mpeg-4 Basic, 240x340 ONLY.

It provides an easy way of viewing your digital photo files or a slide show with background music. It is even programmed for automatic decoding and convenient bookmarking (playlist) of multiple files within a folder.

It has however, not yet received its obedience training, which was scheduled to take place in Sydney.

Installing and setting up the Mvix™ MX-760HD is a breeze. Simply pop-in a typical 3.5” hard drive (not included), transfer all your media content from you PC and you are good to go.

Simply shoot yourself with arsenic bullets dipped in hydrofluoric acid, while simultaneously shoving red-hot branding irons made of toxic uranium byproducts into your eyeballs.

The built-in Setup menu and a full-featured Remote offer optimal flexibility and control over the entire system. 

Setup menu only accessible on the miniscule 4-line text LCD screen. Eleven of the 47 remote buttons confirmed working (5 of which are direction pads, 2 volumes, and the power button).

Simple firmware upgrades keep this media center updated with support for latest file formats.

Firmware updates ceased upon release of the newer model, and will never include H.264 support.

The MX-760HD comes in a sleek metallic chassis with front-panel LCD. This stylish hard-disk based media center makes it a dream machine for multimedia aficionados.

Metal made of plastic. R2D2 is sleeker. Dream machine for a Will It Blend episode.

In summary, consider this a heartfelt plea to both make me see my doc about my now blood-boilingly high blood pressure and do not purchase this device.

You want me to soundproof what?

Imagine if you will, a machine, the design of which requires that of a rotating 18 inch cube be filled with large rubber balls. The motor used must be incredibly noisy, like a hand blender hooked up to a 220 volt line blending a glass bowl full of steel ball bearings. Now, imagine running this machine almost all day long in an incredibly echo-filled room, that somehow, unbelievably amplifies the cacophony of noises. Of course the building that houses the echo chamber that houses the monstrosity is built with paper-thin walls.

With this background, now you know that the task on hand is to somehow muffle and soundproof this device.

Phase I: Baffled Planning

Your options at this point are looking quite bleak, you wonder what on earth kind of approach to take. Acoustic tiles? No thank you. High surface area studio foam pyramids? Way too expensive. Building a room inside a room? Sure, if the room you were dealing with was larger than a bathroom. Full insulation of the room using some seriously high R-value attic insulation? Genius! Oh, wait, no, because at a moment's notice the mandate could come down that the machine is to be moved to a different location. Retrofit a large freezer to hold the machine? So close, but they don't make freezers quite that large. Create a fridge-like box to house the machine? Done deal.

Phase II: Materials

Now you find yourself roving through the local home center trying to figure out what materials to use. To your complete and total amazement, your spirit soars as you see an item called Soundboard. Huzzah! The project will be a cakewalk!

Phase III: Construction

Of course, to your dismay, you realize that the miniature door through which the enclosure must fit will be the bane of your existence. There goes your easy box idea. You dream up some kind of modular system with pre-fab panels that, when assembled using simple bolts at the site, transform into a glorious soundproof enclosure. Totally doable.

Working with the soundboard could not be more dreamy, it slices like wonderbread and is surprisingly soft. The frames that will hold the panels of soundboard go together quickly, though because you have tried to be frugal with the supplies, you ended up using 2x2s which begin splitting after they are perforated with decking screws. The carcass is built and you begin laying on the meat of the sound panels. They flake easily and something has to be done about it. Back to the home center. You scheme up using 1/8 inch melamine panels to face the entire thing with. You pick up the weather stripping that will go between the doors to make a solid seal that you forgot on your third trip.

The white melamine cuts well and you being placing it over the meaty carcass. It does make the fridge-like tomb look very nice, that is until you try fastening it down, whereupon the squishiness of the underlying soundboard makes the melamine crack when you put every other screw in too far because your freezing hands fumble with the drill. (Did I mention that this is to be constructed in the dead of winter?)

Fine. The box is mostly complete, you wrangle up some old carpet padding and glue it inside all the panels. Now for the hinges and finishing touches (or finishing blows). The hinges and latches are frustrating because they must really be anchored to something reasonably structural, and you would probably have better luck hanging a picture frame on a wall made of jello. You press on and get it to work... good thing the hinges are in the back and no one will see the disgraceful "workmanship."

Now for the joy that is weather stripping. Of course the sticky crap they put on the back only as some kind of cruel joke, that holds long enough for you to look the other direction, only to look back and find a tangled, sticky coil. Liquid nails doesn't stick to the stick-um, so that's out. Dare I suggest you use tiny finishing nails? Oh, yeah. Without yet another trip to your second home, the home center, you collect enough oddball miniature nails from various jars and drawers. It goes without saying that you will be obliterating your cold, numb fingers before this stripping is completed. Twenty-five swears later the stripping is looking pretty good and makes a great seal, at least until you open and close the door a few times, realizing that the fragile stripping is right where end users will be grabbing the door. So those lovely two hours were futile. Screw it, it's good enough, and actually, surprisingly dampens the horrendous noises.

Phase IV: Free Delivery

Now the fun part, the triumphant delivery. The modular system with the two bolts per edge works flawlessly upon disassembly. You place the two side panels and two back / bottom panels with their hinging doors in the truck and deliver them. You smile to yourself conqueringly as you carry the panels through the seemingly miniature doorway. Of course, at this point, your ego is deflated when you realize that the ever-critical bolts are on the workbench back at the shop.

You return with the bolts and the proper tools. Now you deal with your lack of planning in the construction phase as you navigate the miniature space in the room now filled with the ridiculously large soundproof box with barely enough room to scrape your arm behind the unit to place the bolts. For some reason that you've blocked out of your memory to save your sanity, some of the bolts don't line up so you just bust out the deck mate screws and screw the dang thing together.

Phase V: Real world results

The best part of the entire project is saved until this phase. Over ninety-five percent of the time that you walk by the room in the subsequent weeks you happily discover that the doors on the soundproof box are wide open, the machine roaring away, completely negating THE ENTIRE POINT! You marvel at the sheer laziness when you have explicitly designed the latches with the lowest common denominator in mind.

Phase *%#&!: Destruction

After a few months of endless complaints, your fury at the futility of the situation comes to a head and you go down to the maintenance room where the sawzall is kept. Now all that remains are distant painful memories, a 3x8 sheet of board leftover, and that wonderful constant headache from the noisy machine.

-Taylor

Bathtub Installation

If you have ever tried to lift a hippopotamus (who's swallowed a refrigerator) through a narrow doorway and, for good measure, up stairs then you are qualified to tackle this project.

The ingredients required for a semi-successful bathtub installation are one absurdly heavy cast iron bathtub (awkwardly weighted with nice sharp edges), a hand truck, length of rope barely long enough to wrap around the tub to tie it to the hand truck (and while you're at it be sure to use the thinnest rope you can find). Do not have any spare ingredients whatsoever.

Also integral during the install is one steep set of stairs, messy home with hairpin turns, and a bathroom designed to hold one bathtub (maybe), sink (if you can call it that) and a toilet (the long kind that juts far into the room). If there is room for anything else (like people) then the room is too big and you should focus your efforts on something even more frustrating (like installing a kitchen sink or metal rain gutters.) Finally, you'll need no more than two people to lift the leviathan. Why on earth would you want to clutter the work area with more lifting power? Of course these two people to need be woefully under qualified physically – one being in his mid 60s the other weighing less than half what the tub weighs.

There you have it, the recipe for putting in your very own house weight. Let's get started!

First, begin your project by choosing rush hour traffic to pick up the tub. There's no better time to start a big lift like this than by sitting in traffic for an hour. It helps to clear the mind...of good thoughts and fill it with tension and angst. Somehow see if you can find a particularly bad traffic day. Say, Friday afternoon when road work is in full swing.

Next, find a store that will be packed with people who have a keen desire to step in front of your path. Go all the way to the back of the store where the bathtubs are. Find the one you want. Look for a cart to put it on. Walk over an isle or two because there's always a cart straggling nearby. Walk over a few more isles. Go to the front of the store. Keep looking in hopes one will appear by the barbecues and riding lawn mowers. Leave the store and head for the parking lot. Spot a cart right by where you parked. Mutter something under your breath as you grab the cart and walk all the way back to the back of the store enjoying the rhythmic thumping from the square wheel on said newly found cart.

Get your first taste at what it feels like to move a small car when you try to lower the tub onto the seemingly under-built cart. After avoiding devastating pinch danger maneuver the now much larger and heavier cart to the front of the store to pay for it. Watch the people gawk at your "prize" as they hesitantly shuffle to the side. As a side note, for a really neat experience choose only isles that have the most people (also with giant carts) and displays jutting into your path.

Mentally unravel the puzzle of just how you're going to get this thing into the house much less the bed of the truck. Try to force the visions of limb amputation from your thoughts. Consider yourself lucky if you get away with at least one thumb.

Once you pay the bill take your very own personal hell to the truck. Open the bed and lift one end onto the tailgate. Now heave the other end up and push the tub into the bed of the truck. Magic! This wasn't too bad. Maybe your project won't be so bad after all. Think again. Navigate the traffic that has somehow gotten worse back to the house where it will be installed. Back the truck down the driveway (scraping past the rose bushes along the way). Now let the fun begin.

Find the undersized hand truck and the small length of twine. Lower one end of the tub to the ground then stand it on one end. Now position the hand truck under the tub. Note how it seems too small for the job. Take the 'rope' and wrap it around the tub and 'secure' it to the hand truck. There, that ought to keep you safe when the load becomes unbalanced. Now you get your first feel at how clumsy this load feels when you try to tilt the hand truck back only to find it barely budges. After getting some help from your retiree helper you suddenly feel the whole weight of this thing as it presses into your arms. Fortunately the hand truck's handle will be so low that your arms will be fully extended while you try to lift it. Also a bonus is the thin crate that surrounds the tub. But the best part of all will be the slivers from this crate that will slowly get inserted into your skin!

Slowly back up toward the stairs. Get into position. Start counting to three in the hopes that your partner understands to lift on three. One. Two. Alright, two is a good number as you feel a sharp jab of the crate into your arms. Heave! Repeat about seven or eight times. So it doesn't feel like your getting off too easy increase the height of each successive step by an inch or two until the final step which will be about eleven inches tall. When you get to the top of the stairs notice how the floor bows a little.

Nicely done! You've made it into the house. Now to get to the bathroom which is at the end of a path of clutter and poorly placed furniture. Somehow you get past all that (with some 'gentle' coaxing of a sofa and chair). Let the hand truck tilt back upright once you've made it into the bathroom. Suddenly you'll feel the gravity of the situation sink in as you realize there's no possible way to lower this thing into place without dropping it and likely having it crash through the floor. Now for one of the best parts of this recipe, using one of the ingredients for a second duty. Remember that length of twine-like rope used to tie the tub to the hand truck? It's time to put that into service again. You will use this to lower the tub into place. Of course, you will use part of a stud in the wall as the pulley for the maneuver. Somehow you will begin to institute a new set of physics half way through the project. A rope that may have a tensile strength of 50 or 60 pounds will suddenly be able to support 300 pounds. It will also be able to withstand the sharp edges of the cast iron. Not only will the rope be significantly stronger than it should be but also the horizontal stud in the wall; the one that moves around easily when you put your hand on it. Obviously two small nails driven in only half way will hold a tub.

As you start to lower the tub to see if it will fit, feel that impressively immense weight dig into your shoulder. You won't have felt a weight like this before. It's heavy and awkward enough to confuse your brain. Surely this will be the heaviest thing, intended to be moved by humans, you will ever encounter. It will almost be like trying to comprehend the vastness of the universe. Just when you think you have it, it will overwhelm you.

If you possible try to install the tub right below a brand new window you installed days earlier. There's nothing quite like the combination of a mind blowingly heavy weight and a double pane glass window inches from each other. To protect the window nail up a piece of quarter inch plywood. That ought to hold a sharp and heavy corner away from the glass. Now to uncrate the tub and position it into place. Undo a few wire straps and pull away the wooden crate. Begin to slide and rotate the tub to a point where you can lower it into place. As you start to lower the tub it won't go down straight. Of course it won't because there are no complete edges for it to pivot on. There will be one flat side and then a rounded tub bottom. Naturally it will tip toward the window.

Now walk through the house searching for lengths of wood to act as levers secure in the knowledge that there will be absolutely no room to use those levers in the tiny bathroom. Treat this time as more of a means to avoid the inevitable: finger loss. Walk back to the bathroom with a couple boards a few feet long. Lean them against the wall and then lean yourself against the tub. Ponder your situation. As you ponder, feel the nice cold smooth surface of the tub. Run your fingers gently across the soft enamel finish all the way to the big rough gash on the corner. Feel it again in disbelief. Now have the entire project flash before your eyes as you realize that you're going to have to move this bitch out of the house and take it back to the store. Examine the nicely rusted gash knowing that you didn't cause it because of it's beautiful iron oxide patina. Marvel how this one small piece of the tub was the only part you couldn't see in the store because it was concealed by the wooden crate.

Reverse process.

Hopefully you are borrowing a truck that was recently repaired after being involved in a front end collision. Turn on the headlights which have somehow been wired to activate the windshield wipers. Try to deactivate the wipers by flicking switches, levers and knobs. The speed of the wipers will only increase with these vain attempts. Turn off the truck. At this point the headlights will switch on. Start the truck again. The wipers will have stopped but now each of the headlights will be two very different levels of brightness. Have yourself a good laugh to help ease the tenseness of the evening. Drive back to the store while having several people flash their lights at you. Enjoy the brightly lit tree tops courtesy of the poorly aimed headlights.

Arrive back at the store a good three or four hours after you were there last. Unload the tub from the truck back onto the cart that was right where you left it (by some miracle). You'll begin to get better at handling the colossus. Wheel it to the return counter in the store. Wait patiently in line behind the guy who is returning a half dozen or so 2 x 4s, a light fixture, moulding, a couple bags of pipe fittings (one of which was one fitting short), box of screws, half a roll of wallpaper, toilet seat, a fence post or two and a potted plant. Continue waiting for another thirty minutes as the person taking the returns laughs and giggles to cope with his complete lack of experience in this department. Notice how his slow deliberate motions will seem to take eight times longer than they really should. Wait to hear the sweet words, "There's no sku number on this, I'll have to call the lumber department." Minutes later the lumber department will pick up. The returns guy will try to describe a 1 inch by 2 inch piece of pine furring by calling it "a long thin piece of wood," there will be a pause, "it's yellowish." No doubt you will hear a faint burst of laughter coming from the lumber department. With no end in sight demand another person be dispatched to the returns department. Wait for another ten or fifteen minutes for someone to arrive. Continue delighting in the sight of some guy trying to return stuff he's had in his garage for months.

Once a second clerk arrives explain the situation and ask for a refund. After being informed there's not enough cash in the till wait another ten minutes for the manager to arrive and authorize store credit to be issued. Go to the back of the store (you'll know where to go this time) and pick out a new MUCH lighter steel tub. Have the slowest most cautious worker take it off the shelf for you. Open the box and examine the entire tub BEFORE you lift it even once. Load the tub back onto a new cart (which you had to go all the way back out to the parking lot to find) and purchase it with newly issued store credit.

Drive back to the house enjoying the flurry of high beam flashes from oncoming traffic. Unload the tub. You won't need the hand truck for this one. Easily lift it up the stairs and into the bathroom. Lower into position with little or now effort. Kick yourself for not doing this five hours ago. Stand back and remark to yourself how it looks and functions the exact same way as the heavy, clumsy, life-taking cast iron tub.

Congratulations! Now you can lie down and let your back decompress while wincing in pain.

-Braden