A smug sense of self-satisfaction, sans Prius

Accomplishment has to be a sin.

As you can tell, I have a penchant for one liners that accentuate my feelings. You might assume that it has something to do with poor writing skills, and in a manner of speaking, you'd be absolutely correct. I do believe laziness is a writing faux pas, and I am none the less afflicted.

But I digress (see how lazy I am, I even started a sentence with a "but", and it's a fragment). No, the reason I say what I say about accomplishment is simple. There really aren't many things in the world that feel better than accomplishment. Actually, most of them are directly linked.

Par exemple: I purchased a townhouse on the south side of a nice suburb, exactly 2 blocks away from every-fucking-thing-you-could-ever-need-in-the-event-of-zombie-apocalypse. It's a nice size for two people and even livable for up to 4. There's a large family room, for our new HDTV and surround sound system, a living room which is a work in progress, a sizable kitchen, an office, a large master bedroom... and a humongous bathroom. It's not mansion huge, but it's definitely twice as big as the bathrooms in most single family homes.

I might not have mentioned that I picked it up for 20 under the beginning asking price.

Or that they paid closing.

And sellers and realtor's fees.

And installed new carpeting for us.

There had to be a trade off.

And there was. (I hope this is pissing you off)

The general condition of the house was, "It's seen better days". Everything was dirty. The walls were scuffed and unpainted for years. Paint was chipping in places, and the master bathroom was a designation of nasty that prevented government workers from even entering. Here lies my trophy.

The shower, in the beginning, was colored a sickly yellow... it's still a cream, but better than yellow (I thank my wife for that). The shower head was peppered in rust, and the drain corroded to the point where it actually looked biological. Not to mention the nasty BLACK mold growing underneath the shower knob. The shower knob came easily enough, it was replaced, and the facets were cleaned. The shower head was easily replaced (I've done a few in my day).

The shower drain, however, what should have been the easiest part to remove and replace, has been the bane of my existence for the past 3 weeks. On top of being corroded, the drain was also broken. The plug lay defeated, inches away from its once identifiable home. A stem protruded from the bottom, and a leaflet of steel branched to neither here nor there. The drain itself was the epitome of discouragement, as all its teeth were wrenched by the previous resident's attempt to remove it from their lives (probably in an effort to make the house appear more... amiable).

It should come as no surprise that I actually had to cut this disgusting remnant out of the tub. My weapon, a reciprocating saw. My ammunition. The Ugly. What should have taken the remainder of the hour (10 minutes), took less than 30 seconds with The Ugly. Almost too efficient... sort of.

Along with it's intended mission, The Ugly encountered some "Collateral Damage", among it's victims, a small portion of the tub (easily fixed with some fiberglass patch) and the PVC drain pipe below.

I consulted with my father-in-law for the best plan of attack, and his response (and a rather smart one) was to open the closet, and point to a wooden panel that was screwed down in to the wall. "This should provide drain access," he said, "We've got something just like it at my house." On a whim, not 2 days later, I un-screwed the board from the wall, and removed a fastening nail. Behind it? More wall.

I'll tell you that right now that this was a bit disappointing. My running theory is that they simply forgot to cut the hole, and put the board up anyway. The father-in-law's running theory was that I should remove a garage panel to get underneath it. So what does any good son-in-law do in this situation? Become Pauly-fucking-Shore and pull out my knife and cut a fucking hole in the wall. What do you see behind it?

Fiberglass.

Most men wouldn't bat an eye at fiberglass, but God, or nature, blessed me with this great allergy to fiberglass. Where you might find discomfort, I find stigmata (just keeping up this religious metaphor). This little discovery actually set me back 2 weeks. I simply did not want to deal with it.

Yesterday came. And with it, the realization that if I didn't do this myself, that my father-in-law would have us in my garage dropping ceiling panels, rather than pulling fiberglass. I grab my trusty reciprocating saw, sans The Ugly for fear for cutting pipes, and whip out the quickest hole I could manage, and a few trash bags later, I had my holy grail.

I'll skip the details in the awkward replacement, but I'll give you this advice; if there are labels close to the unions in your pcv piping, sand them off before you start. Trust me on that one, that's the reason your piping is leaking. A mere 4 hours later (sister-in-law's graduation party interlude included), I was jamming the fiberglass back in the wall, and washing down my skin. Content washed over my soul, rife with the knowledge that the next time I talk to said father in law, I'll simply mention that I've solved my problem, with a reciprocating saw.

Top that.