Mold

I decided to go consult a random word generator online to give me an idea for today’s post, and after a few different words, I came across “mold”. Different things come to mind when I think of this word.

The first one is a mold for creating something. You cast material, such as plaster, wax or molten plastic, into this contraption to be able to create multiple objects of the same design.

I also think about the organism that is the base of blue cheese and penicillin-based antibiotics. Not only does it produce yummy food and bacteria-fighting drugs, some people are allergic to it. My daughter is one of these people. She developed an allergy to amoxicillin (a form of penicillin) at around age 5. She broke out in hives and was taken to see a doctor, who prescribed a different antibiotic at the time. Much to her chagrin, she is allergic to a second major family of antibiotics, the family of what are called cephalosporins, which includes variants such as Keflex. So if she gets an infection, they gotta find yet another antibiotic to prescribe.

I also decided to write about mold is because my family had an ordeal with it back in 2016, I believe. The house I rent was having some issues with pipes leaking in the wall. They’d spring up left and right, and they’d get patched as they came about. Finally there was a leak behind the stove, and when it got pulled away from the wall, there was all sorts of mold behind the stove. The wall was covered with it, so there was no telling how long it’d been there. We had to temporarily move out of the house while workmen came and tore out the mold-infested drywall and cabinetry and replace or refurbish it all. That took about a month to 1½ months to finally get everything replaced, including re-piping the entire house. It turns out the plumbers contracted for the original construction of our section of the subdivision did cheap work with shoddy materials, and had since gone out of business. What took the longest in the whole ordeal was the landlord and the HOA wrangling with their respective insurance to determine who would pay what. I didn’t care, I just wanted my house and kitchen back.

“Let us live so that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.”
– Mark Twain

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