Sump Pumping

The soft-rock group America recorded a hit song in the 70s with the lyrics, “It never rains in Southern California but girl don’t they warn ya, it pours, man it pours.”

Our home and mortgage are not yet underwater, but parts of the homestead have been underwater during the recent BREAKING NEWS storms.

We have storm drainage issues. Merry Christmas. After a downpour our backyard looks like a duck pond for several hours. Apparently my storm drainage pipes have been feeling neglected and decided to do what our sewage pipes frequently do – refuse passage. I have Tom the Plumber on speed-dial.

Two days ago, Tom the Plumber spent three hours roto-rooting the storm drainage pipeline but could not unclog it. The only permanent solution is to replace the line at a cost substantially more than their three-hour futile effort. Since our family went into a recession long before our nation, I began rooting around for short-term, delaying tactics.

First, I thought about using the tube I bought to siphon the neighbor’s Hummer when gas reached $4.60 a gallon last year. I’ve been a sucker many times in my life, but gas is one thing, ponds are another.

Second, I reasoned that I could stop refilling our dog’s water bowl. He will slurp anything. As an enticement, maybe I could spike the pond with female dog scents. Now if I could just train him to pee over the backyard fence. If he excelled, I could hire him out. He might become a Sump Dog Millionaire*.

Since the need was more immediate, I trolled the aisles at Home Depot looking for a Sump Pump. I encountered fellow trollers. The cheapest one was $78. I hooked it up to two garden hoses (we have a long driveway and the operative storm drains are at its end) and stood by to watch the draining experience. Nothing, not even a little slurp. Expletive deleted. PJ suggested I look at the directions. I hate it when she does that. At least I had not tossed them. Yup, right there in English and several other languages it cautioned that the pump only works in at least four inches of water. Four inches! If I waited that long I could turn our house into a houseboat. Fortunately the storm drain opening was recessed more than four inches. Voila, we had some major sucking going on, and the water recessed.

Now that I have this new gizmo, no doubt this last storm was the swan song for the season. Expletive deleted.

* I apologize for abuse of the pun genre.

Shakin' in My Booties

We SoCal-types are so laissez-faire when dealing with our faults (some might say too lazy or too fair). We have so many that we can’t escape barbs and jars that come our way. Almost any fault map of Southern California looks like a vein road map of our bodies – lines everywhere.

I was forty minutes into my LA Fitness routine when the most recent quake hit this morning. I felt a bit of a movement and sensed an incoming. Seconds later, the gym jolted and shook. I, and about 50 other sweaters looked up, and around, and then continued our routines. Yawn. Only one, a forty-something woman, begin walking rapidly for the exit, phone glued to her ear. The local TV stations immediately switched into 24/7 Breaking News mode, while searching for any thing breaking.

The epicenter was about 20 miles east-north-east of Anaheim Hills, and initially registered a 5.8 on the scare scale (later downsized to 5.4). Cruise ships and Amtrak rock more than that. Regardless, I cut my workout a little short (it’s nice to have excuse now and then) because it suddenly dawned on me that a year ago we had tiled half the downstairs. Arriving home, all was well – no cracks to the naked eye. A couple of artifacts had fallen over as well as one DVD floor rack.

Later, before cameras, a Los Angeles city councilman calmly blathered that experts project within the next decade a San Andreas Fault fracture measuring from 7.9 to 8.1. That was unsettling. For the uninformed, anything over a 7.0 is a MASSIVE earthquake.

I recall that during my first year in Los Angeles, after an extended stay with a certain Uncle, I was rudely welcomed to SoCal with a 6.5 quake at 6 AM on my birthday. The epicenter was 30 miles north of my studio apartment in West Los Angeles. It bounced me out of my twin bed. I crawled back in and went back to sleep, only to later be awakened by a panicked call from my betrothed, PJ, from her dorm at UCLA. She was shook up a bit more.

In another 4-5 years PJ and I will be off to our sunset years’ nest, though it won’t be the faults’ fault. Where to, we do not yet know. But our research will include fault maps.

Meanwhile, I’m ignoring The Big One’s inevitability, while hoping it holds off until we get the hell outta here.