Exciting Exciting Excitement

Tuesday morning was the weekly site meeting, with Connie, Pacman, and Big'un in attendance. When I arrived at the construction site, all the fellas were up on the roof, jabbering away, having climbed up a ladder to get there.

Now, I had spent Sunday and Monday with a migraine. Monday's migraine left me reeling, quite literally. I looked like a drunk stumbling down the halls, back and forth between our office and the ladies' room, or our office and the elevators so I could get myself another Dr. Pepper to ward off the waves of nausea.

I declined to climb the ladder, but made my way up the stairs and stood on a roof terrace just next to where the fellas were all standing, Connie's superintendent included.

Oldsmobile arrived after me, and so did Big'un's mom - our client - and we discussed the project. Pacman headed off with Superdeeduper to discuss the ceiling treatment in an area of the house, and I stayed behind, listened to a couple of questions from Big'un and his mom, and then went in search of Pacman to learn the answers.

I asked the pertinent questions, gave a few answers, and then...

Felt weak. And dizzy. And I couldn't see straight. And it sounded like I was underwater.

I was, in short, about to lose consciousness.

This has happened often enough in the past ten years that I can recognize it before it happens. Superdeeduper also seemed to realize something was wrong.

"You okay?" he asked. I couldn't hear him, but I could see his mouth beneath its Yosemite Sam mustache forming the words. I said I felt dizzy, and needed to sit.

A mechanical boot was quickly uncovered, and I sat down on its galvalum surface while Pacman ran to my car to fetch a Dr. Pepper.

After a few minutes, during which Superdeeduper stood by wringing his hands, I told Pacman I was going to go home. I honestly felt better, by this time, although still shaky, but nowhere near passing-out shaky.

This has happened to me a couple of times in the past year that I've worked for Oldsmobile, almost always the day after a migraine, when I haven't slept well, and when I don't have a wad of protein (usually from McDonald's) settling comfortably in the bottom of my stomach.

I went home, fell asleep immediately, and awoke around 1:00 pm, at which point I ate an apple and... something else, I can't remember what, called the office, and hammered out the details for an upcoming excursion to another project in Oklahoma, to take place Wednesday. Pacman was incredibly concerned when I spoke to him on the phone, and I was grateful for his worry. He said Superdeeduper - a nice guy, a good'ole'boy but without the usual chauvinism of a good'ole'boy - had called the office to check on me.

I think it's time to place a call to the neurologist, though. This is the second multi-day migraine I've had in as many weeks, and I can't keep passing out on construction sites... or almost passing out, for that matter. So I'll have to prepare for another round of doctor's visits, probably medication changes, etc... none of which are pleasant, and none of which I'll ever quite get used to.

Just as I start to think I'm back in the saddle again, I fall off the horse.

Ready! Set! Curse!

I will throttle Pacman upon his return from NJ.

Not only for the fact that he failed to tell me how long he'll be out of town (no one is actually certain when he'll be returning), but also because his absence has placed me at the center of a potential s**tstorm of contention between the firm, the contractor, and the owners.

Big'un pointed out to me some staining on the wood framing, and I took a look at it. Radio had expressed his concern about some areas, too, when I casually dropped the subject in conversation. It looks like mold (black spots on the wood) and not like staining (black streaks running along the grain of the wood).

I discussed the problem with the guys in the office, Wednesday morning, and Scooter helpfully suggested that I discuss the difficulty with the contractor, and that I might moot the possibility of having a bleach solution sprayed on the affected areas as a precaution.

I followed through with that suggestion today.

I now know why Pacman swears loudly after every conversation with the contractor.

Not only did he address me by a nickname I loathe and that - if he were not in his 70s - would earn him a stern "My name is Ms. Strainedconsciousness," but he became immediately defensive. And worse, he became dismissive.

I'm the fourth person to bring this up - the third to broach the topic with him - but none of us know what we're talking about. I tried to suggest the bleach treatment as a preventive measure, seeing as the areas where there appears to be mold don't receive enough light to adequately treat it with UV radiation, and he guffawed as if I'd just suggested we sing to it or something. He also accused Big'un of talking through his hat in regards to who had initially brought the staining to light (Big'un told me his dad noticed it, and that it concerned both of them).

I shot back, telling the contractor - who might need a nickname... Connie? - that we had just recently had a GC replace all the framework supporting the first floor of the house because there was mold growing in it from improper storage, that the contractor had had to pay for testing of the material, and then ate the cost of the framing. It was sort of one of those "you can do this the easy way, or you can do this the hard way" implied threats.

And then, he asked me not to discuss it with the client until he had a chance to look it over and discuss it.

And he tried to tell me that mold won't grow if it's surrounded by open air.

Yeah, tell that to the apples in my fruit bowl...

Just kidding! I ate my last apple this evening!

The EPA, however, would disagree with him, and does, explicitly, in their handy guide entitled "A Brief Guide to Mold, Moisture, and Your Home."

And then he called me back ten minutes after he'd hung up to reiterate everything he'd just said, as if I wasn't listening.

So I am meeting Big'un at the site tomorrow morning to discuss mirrors in the exercise area (which is bigger than two of my apartments, just in case you were wondering), and Connie is meeting us there to discuss what he calls the staining, and what I call the mold.

Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, for the battle of the century. Or, at least, of the week.

Is It Friday, Yet?

I know it's not Friday, and I'm honestly glad it isn't, but good gracious, this week is fraught with difficulties, already!

Out of the past six workdays, I have been on the site five days. Today, Tuesday, I was there twice: once for the regular Contract Administration meeting (guess who's contract administrator since Pacman's in NJ?), and once because the owner's son sent me an email loaded with questions, after I settled the Great Screws vs. Nails Debate of 2010. I felt the need to look at the framing to see exactly what he was talking about before fully addressing one of the issues.

Hmmm... maybe the owner's son needs a nickname... We'll call him Big'un, because he's a big'un (granted, he's tall, not fat).

At the meeting this morning, Big'un questioned the framer's use of nails to attach the joist hangers, instead of screws, like the contractor on the family's ranch house is doing (this being their Texas ranch, as opposed to their Montana ranch: keep them straight, okay?). I told him that nails were acceptable, I'd never seen joist hangers screwed into a studwall before, and that it wasn't necessary to screw all the framework together.

He pulled a framer, on me. "Maybe you could just call Adam and check?" I wanted to smack him right in his 24 year old bearded face. But I didn't, because he's the client's son. Instead, I hailed Scooter, put the question to him, and Scooter reiterated what I had just said.

Big'un didn't seem satisfied. The other contractor, the one at the ranch house, uses screws after all.

I have a hunch that the frames aren't the only things that contractor is screwing...over.

Once back in the office, I researched the exact joist hangers we're using - which specifically state NOT to use screws - and emailed the Big'un to let him know. He shot back a looooooooooong email, full of questions that compared the construction of the house in town to the ranch house (the Texas ranch house).

Apples and oranges, kiddo. Apples and oranges.

For starters, the ranch house is a renovation. Different methods must be used to construct the houses. They have different building envelopes. And if his email was accurate, which I doubt it was, then their ranch house is a mold/mildew factory waiting to happen, because it's being built to prevent the walls from breathing properly. It took me a full hour to fashion an email that defended the building envelope we've designed without impugning the design of the contractor and/or architect of the ranch house (I'm not entirely certain they have an architect).

One thing he did bring up was staining on some of the framework. I decided to check it out on my way home - so I left to go home an hour early - and took some photos. I'm not happy, because the staining appears to be not so much staining as mold and mildew on the framework. If that's the case, we'll want to rip out the affected pieces and replace them. And by "we'll want to" I mean "we'll make the framers do it."

I also scared the heck out of Lord Midget, the Electrician, who feared I had returned to give him additional directions. He seemed relieved that I was just there to look at the framing and the ceiling in one of the offices.

Just before leaving our office, I was indulging in a fair amount of griping about Big'un, and the somewhat idiotic questions he asked (with the exception of the staining), and Radio made the remark, "You know, you shouldn't be complaining about him. You're really missing an opportunity, here. Sure, he may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he's rich and not a bad looking kid."

"He's illiterate," I replied, brandishing the typo-ridden email. "Enough said."

"You need to be more materialistic. Money can make up for lots of things, even being an illiterate idiot."

I sighed. "You've obviously never dated an illiterate idiot before."

"You've obviously never dated a rich one."

I smiled. "You obviously don't know my dating history." And with that, I left the office. I have a hunch Radio hasn't spoken the last in his attempt to get me to marry our client's son, however.

At least it would guarantee the firm more business, right?