Sir Rantsalot

I refrain from calling Charlotte until I have had a chance to return to my office and shut my door. If there is going to be audible wailing and gnashing of teeth and expletives flying hither and yon, I owe the people around me at least that much decency.

I sit at my desk. I take out a pen and pad so I can take notes to follow along competently when we inevitably rehash finer details, and I dial Charlotte.

"Oh sweet bearded Jesus. Our mother is crazy!" is exactly the greeting I get from Charlotte.

I find the levity at this point to actually giggle and say, "What did our dangerously unbalanced mother do now?"

Charlotte, ever dutiful had called her. She hadn't called in a while (clearly we don't have the same sense of guilt) and she felt badly that she could not recall when Mom's cataract surgery was supposed to be (if not cancelled altogether once she showed up with trauma to the face and eye sockets...) and so she picked up the phone while doing something mindless like laundry.

And within minutes she was off to the races. Rehashing the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop Debacle in Hi-Def detail within a matter of minutes.  Criticized Charlotte for how she and Jack handled Joe's idiotic behavior and flagrant violation of their privacy and their home without so much as an acknowledgement from him that it was wrong.

And then it became obvious that Joe had shared the sordid details of the texting war we'd all had a few weeks back.  Mom was how-dare-you-girls-ing and all that and segued right into her recollection (however flawed) of the cleaning out of Dad's house again.  (Mom never paid this much attention to Dad's house when she lived in it. The sudden preoccupation decades later baffles me.) 

And then while she was berating Charlotte for blocking Joe's texts forever on her cell, (When we all know if he weren't such a full on idiot, he could figure out a way around that. But there is that little matter of him being an actually super-sized moron with no ability to do anything not specifically instructed to do by our mother or his shrew wife) she went on to take offense to some benign comment Charlotte had made when Mom seemed to think she had to pilfer a bottled water from the graduation ceremony a few weeks back. I couldn't even recall the exchange it was such a non-event, but Mom has had  a few weeks to let it marinate in her cauldron of swill and has turned it in to something she can take offense over, natch. (And if she didn't come up with being offended all on her own, I am sure Bill helped her get to the boiling point, divisive little snake that he is.)

"Oh my God!  You are too kind to stay on the phone for even two bites of that crap sandwich, Char, " I manage to say when she puts a period at the end of the long rambling sentence.

"Oh it doesn't end there. She has more to say about you."

And suddenly I am not smiling. Not taking notes. No longer amused. Here is where the meanness takes flight.

Ma Bell or Ma Hell?

I wondered when the calm would end and the meanness would begin.

With my mother that is.

Since the kitchen renovation has me in an uncharacteristically unshakable tailspin, I find myself, for the third time in a week, having forgotten my lunch.

I am a brown bagger. A habit I formed when Lars and I began our horrific divorce proceedings and I had to watch every penny. (Mostly I watched them go into his pockets. The ones on his low budget, business casual, unironed, 36 Short pants.) I eat an astonishing amount of food for a woman. But mostly veggies, egumes and protein, so I am not the size of a mobile home (Yet. I am sure the late night bacon fests will come back and haunt me eventually.) But still, to buy enough lunch to keep me from making at least one if not two trips daily to the vending machine, which is mostly stocked with a wide assortment of chips, but also carries scrumptious temptations like Lorna Doones and Twix Bars, I would have shelled out a ridiculous amount of money each day, just to keep my blood sugar above sea level.

So I started to take my lunches to work.  Artfully pack them and squirrel away my precious ingredients in the the same stupid refrigerator that is still in the attic. Wedge the stuff in among the wine bottles so Lars doesn't eat it himself, just for the sake of meanness.

And I am in the same routine now, only the salads and other things I pack are mainstreamed into the regular downstairs fridge. It is the sort of stuff that no kid in his right mind would crave, so it is safe from the children. No kid was ever caught sneaking off and hiding in the closet to scarf down a Caesar salad on the QT.

But this week I keep leaving the house having forgetten to bring what I've packed, and today, find myself schlepping to the hospital cafeteria to assemble a reasonably decent and not terribly overpriced salad from the salad bar.  While there, I observe one of my more tolerable colleagues picking over the celery pieces, examining and either keeping or throwing back piece after piece. I razz her a little for that. She's a good sport. We chat about this and that as we proceed down the salad cart and she asks if I am staying in the cafeteria for lunch.

I generally don't. Someone in HR is bound to be endlessly harassed in a public place like this. And everyone who stops you in the cafeteria seems to think that whatever is on their mind would obviously be on yours too, and that you will have full knowledge of the situation, full command of the applicable policies at play, and have a game plan at your fingertips, natch. In short, it is usually more fun to have one's teeth forcibly extracted than to brave the untamed wilds of the employee cafeteria.

But I have not seen this particular colleague for a while and tell her that if she is going to stay, then I'll be a sport and stay for a while, too.

We chat about all manner of things. Partners, kids, vacation plans. Interests we have outside of the office. Her most recent art project. My kitchen renovation Hell.

And as we sit and talk and eat I feel the table vibrate ever so slightly. Like my work blackberry is signaling a disaster.

But it is not mine. Hers?

No.

It's my iPhone. Charlotte is calling. And as I consider whether I can or should answer, the call goes to voicemail. I'll have to pick it up on the way back to my office.

A fairly long time goes by and the phone dings indicating a voicemail message. I look at the indicator.

"Voicemail from Charlotte."

Uh-oh. A long one. That can't be good.

And moments later, I get a little ding telling me I have just gotten a text from Charlotte.

I scarf down my lunch and say a quick goodbye to my friend, who really, is hard to offend, so I don't mind exiting the lunch a little quickly. I get on the elevator and once I am alone, I check my phone for instant messages.

Just one, from Charlotte.

"Call me later, please. Mom is crazy!"

And the games have begun.

Just Keep Swimming

And so, while the kitchen slowly, nearly imperceptibly improves in appearance, I busy myself with life.  We are having a heat wave that would remind you never to be sent to Hell. Thank God I have a pool membership.

I love the pool. It is not the pool that I went to as a child (and earned the nickname "pool rat" with Charlotte and a few others) and the kids can not walk there (which is what I am sure my mother loved most about the proximity of our club) and the life guards aren't nearly as fun (which I am sure will eventually irritate Hil) and there is no roped off Adult Pool (which when I think about it was a nice feature, however irresponsible) but it is a nice pool with lots of kids from my kids' school, and lots of fun things to do, and a reasonably priced menu at the Snack Bar.

But I have noticed that it draws its members from neighborhoods that I don't know very well, and the people are a little odd. The membership at my childhood club was largely families. Large families. And they all lived within a certain distance of the pool property.

This pool has its share of families, and the requisite oldsters, but it also has quite a few middle aged single types.  (Though I may technically qualify for this group, I count myself in the Family set.)  This is the group I find myself observing from behind my Foster Grants.

There is the shapely but beer bellied overly tanned woman who should have forfeited her bikinis a few years ago, who sits smoking a cigarette (prohibited but the 16 year old life guard would never dare say anything) with one hand clicking away on her blackberry with her long bedazzles acrylic nails. And when she's stubbed out the butt, she twirls her over-processed hair --- twisting long ringlets from where the hair protrudes from a scrunchy.  She prances around talking on the phone and putting on a little exhibition, and her voice is that of one who regularly eats ground glass. She also manages to put on a show when exiting the pool. Think Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Shameless.

And then there are the middle aged men who carry on like teenagers on the water. Throwing balls, making a ruckus, being overly loud (even in comparison to the dozens of kids) presumably to get someone's attention (and probably getting the attention of the above woman when she is not clicking away a text message)  They are like giant, hairy five year olds.

And there are the men who have just given up and wear elastic waistband trunks and thick blobs of NoseKote. Really? 

And the women who would like to strut around like the beer bellied lady, but are a little more self conscious about their weight. They wear firmly constructed one piece bathing suits, accompanied by a pair of shorts. Like the shorts aren't going to immediately lead you to assume the worst about what lies beneath. Seriously. Like a soaking wet pair of drawstring gym shorts is going to improve matters.

I have no interest in being noticed by or befriending any of these people. I am there to swim with the kids, get a little frivolous summer reading in, and while I am at it, get a savage tan.  I do wear a fabulous suit, though. I am no Bo Derek but I can still wear a two piece, and do so with pride.

I remember when I thought I could not.

When I was dating J. we took frequent trips to his mother's house and joined the entire extended family in fun filled days in the pool.  (Until of course there was that dreaded wedding episode and my hideous little shout fest with the Insipid Sheila and then my show down with Endorra that ended with me calling her a fat old hen. I wasn't invited back to the pool much after that.)

But when I first went, J. had asked me to wear a conservative suit. (I don't own any string bikinis, just sayin') I was not sure what he meant. I never wear anything too revealing, but this is a bathing suit situation, so I was baffled. He explained that since every single living person in his family could easily be mistaken for the Hindenburg, and I had a decent, slim shape, there would be tension.

Tension?  Excuse me?

Yes, they'd think I was showing off.

Well I'm sorry, fatties, but I am who I am, and I am no more going to cover up in a one piece (like that would conceal the fact that I was separated by at least 100 pounds from each member of the family) than I am going to wear a space suit into the pool. How dare you even sugggest it.

I defiantly wore a South Beach appropriate suit  with a fabulous cut that made me look like a Sports Illustrated cover.  And ate hot dogs and hamburgers in record numbers, just to send them sailing over the edge. Jealous, ladies?  Do a few laps.

What a waste of energy.  And three years time.

Now, two years later, I am more comfortable than ever in my own skin, and even more so in the pool, with my kids, and in a bikini, and who I am attracting or offending could not be further from my mind. And Scott would never ask me to do differently.

The Girl and The Girls

Monday comes and goes. The babysitter is a roaring success. The kids call me the moment she leaves to tell me how much they adore her. The TV remained off the entire time. Pat did not play video games.  They played tennis, they played basketball. They played a board game. They told ghost stories. They talked about what their interests are and what they'd like to do together this summer. I get an email from her as the kids and I are sitting down to enjoy a family sized take out dinner. She gives a full report, asks questions, confirms some plans. I am shocked at how wonderful she is. I am waiting to learn that she is an axe murderer, really.

My kitchen is not exactly a success story of the same magnitude. I barely notice any changes. Maybe if I look really hard I can see fewer, yet newer, wires protruding from odd places. And maybe a little spackle smeared on a rough spot.  Oh, and to give credit where credit is due, there is evidence of some millwork.  And the plastic is down. I can walk through the kitchen without tripping over kitty who is obsessively chewing on the painters tape.

I decide to do a little much overdue laundry, lest my children begin to look like the cast of Oliver.

I walk to the basement and rest the basket across the corner of the drain tub so I can lift its contents and distribute it around the agitator in the washer.

And then I notice it.

There is a blob of something sticky and gluey looking in my drain tub.

No biggie. It is the only nearby working sink at the moment. There is bound to be a little goo left behind on occasion. 

But the blob tells me two things.

1 - Wally and his guys may not be getting much accomplished that is visible to the human eye, but they are definitely working.

2- They have made themselves at home in my basement, including the laundry area. 

It is this second notion that gives me the vapors.

As I turn to the immediate right, where just beyond the drier lies a triple hung, industrial strength clothesline, I see that I have left a grand assortment of bras drying on the line.

I think it is good policy, anytime you are letting strange men into your house to work, or if you are selling your home, to leave an intriguing if not confusing assortment of brassieres on display for all the potential visitors to see. The good, the bad, the ugly. The leopard push up that makes you look like Pamela Anderson. The sports bra you wear to work out in. The pit stained, discolored, pilly one that you wear only when you are mowing the lawn. The Spanx. The Girls Weekend collection. The working man's bras.  All have their place in the lingerie drawer. But somehow a stranger will find them novel.

I've really outdone myself.

Ants. Mice. Petrified holiday sweets. A baffling assortment of bras inexplicably on display. 

I am sure Wally is writing a blog of his own, maybe calling it "Crazy On The Inside: Perfectly Pulled Together People Whose Home Interiors Give Them Away."

Round Two

Three days, another permit, several more holes, an inspection and 20% additional expense later, my project can begin again.

Except that 4 of my cabinets have not arrived. Were expected to have arrived. Were listed on the delivery sheet. But evidently were backordered.

Would have been nice to know before I allowed Wally to rip out my sink and stove and dutifully moved one room full of crap into the next room in boxes.

So progress is slow.  Even slower now that my walls look like Swiss cheese and don't look like they could bear to have a calendar hung on them let alone new cabinets and all of their contents.

So Wally has set about drywalling all of my 92 year old walls and compounding them and sanding them so that they don't fall apart, and tile will lie flat against them.

In the meantime, I want to scream. 

My kids have returned from Lars' house and my babysitter is supposed to start on Monday. In fact, she is supposed to come over on Saturday and take care of some basic business items. (Bank card, pool tickets, contact information etc.)

Again I panic. And this time, I punt.

I cancel the babysitter and decide to complete a folder for her with all manner of minutia.  I will leave an envelope of cash and the tickets and lots of telephone numbers and tell the kids all the rules so there is no nonsense like when you first get a substitute teacher .

I take Scott up on his offer to just spend the weekend in relative peace at his house. We pack the car and a few bags. We are on the road to Scotts at 7 am on Saturday practically leaving skid marks as we peel away from the curb.  At least at Scott's I can cook and boil water and enjoy refrigeration that is bigger than a backpack. As I leave for the luxury of an overnight away from the destruction, I drop Wally an email telling him that the house is his for the weekend. He can work day and night without disturbing anyone but the cat. Hint, hint.

When I return on Sunday, because it is Fathers Day and Lars will have the kids for a few hours, I can see that minimal improvements have been made. It still looks like Warsaw.

OK,  to be honest, Wally is a father, too. He may have had legitimate plans to be enjoying the company of his children instead of the company of my appliance cartons. He may not have had much time to spend at my house.

I have to act quickly. The kids will have to eat dispite there being no place to cook or anything to cook with. I see a much loathed trip to the grocery store in my future.

I plan on Chinese for dinner. Done.

I get in the car, list in my sweaty fist. I am truly in a panic. I need to make decisions.

I meander around the store. It is completely unfamiliar to me now that I shop on line. I am lost.  Like a sheep with no competent, decisive Bo Peep.

But I start to fill my cart.

Apples and oranges. Pretzel rods. Mini yogurts that will fit in the door of my little fridge in the attic.  A half gallon of milk. A half gallon of lemonade. A case of bottled water that can be placed little by little in a fridge that a midget could not be concealed in. Tuna and salads for me at work and treats for the cat. Paper plates. Plastic cutlery. Red Solo Cups to be filled up. Ohh. And a quick stop next door at the Wine and Spirits Shoppe for a mondo bottle of wine.

I return home to stash my third floor "pantry."  I move boxes of cereal and napkins and breakfast bars and packages of cookies so they can be found without scrounging. I wedge every last thing I can into the teeny tiny fridge. I clean the kitty litter and freshen the pitcher of water I've been using to keep her from dying in the heat of the attic. I realize I am distraught.

I am leaving my kids alone the next day with a relative stranger, with a house full of grubby men, and no creature comforts. I am secretly hoping that no one picks tomorrow to start working on their "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" assignment.

Dead Men's Stories

The next day, I am met with an even more deconstructed kitchen and a call from Wally. As I examine the myriad new holes and protruding wires, like errant nose hairs, I listen, more or less, to the bad news.

My wiring is a mess. (Yes, I believe we’ve established that.)

No, it’s really a mess. (Okaaaayyy….)

Well not only are all of those thing, you know, the fridge and the stove and all that all on the one breaker, the line is not even up to code. (He mentions some numbers that mean nothing to me. He may as well have been reading from a Chinese menu.)

Some things are even daisy-chained to things on the second floor. (Whatever that means.)

Whoever did the wiring during the last renovation (In 1980…think Shaper hair sprayed, gravity defying hair dos) did a really bad job. It was completely irresponsible. Dangerous. You’re lucky you didn’t have more trouble.

Well I have plenty now, don’t I?

I think back to when Lars and I bought the house. Hil was born the very next year and weeks later, our sump pump failed during a hurricane (isn’t that always the way?) The guy we’d bought our first house from was an electrician/plumber who had converted our oil heat to gas a few months before. We called him to replace the pump.

He goofed around with the kids and drank coffee in our damp but drying basement while he pulled out the pump and put in a bigger, better model. He suggested a backup and that we purchase a generator. Then he took a look at the electric panels to put the pump on its own breaker.

There were two boxes. An old and a new. He opened the newer one and looked at the sticker inside. The one that indicates who did the electrical work.

“Oh, I know this guy!”

“Do you? Small world!” I say, bouncing Hil on my hip, throwing wash on the line that runs across the basement.

“Well, I did. He’s dead. Died of a drug overdose.”

Well now that would explain my current predicament quite nicely wouldn’t it?

Live Wires

Day 2 comes and goes. I am expecting dramatic improvement from the Hell’s Kitchen of Day 1.

No such luck.
Staples protrude from every square inch of the ancient original floor. Holes gape at me from every part of every wall. Wires dangle at bizarre angles like weeds overtaking a garden.

I convince myself that I am a renovation newbie and really have no realistic right to have expected anything more. As I pick my way through the heavy plastic taped to the door frame, I tell myself that Wally will wave his magic wand and tomorrow the transformation will be remarkable.

As I sit to peel the plastic off of my convenience store salad, Wally calls. I answer, telling myself hopefully that he is calling to discuss paint selection, drawer pull numbers, and faucet choices.

Nope.

“Liza, we have a problem.”

We’ve been here before. I am not alarmed.

“Your electrical wiring is a mess.”

“OK,” I say tentatively. Still not in a panic.

“I went to shut off electric to your refrigerator and the breaker turned off everything.”

“Everything?” Isn’t that a little extreme?

“Well, the fridge, the oven, the stove, the microwave, the dishwasher, all the lights in the kitchen, all the outlets, and everything in the basement.”

Ok, ok, ok. I get it. “So what do we do?” I ask brightly.

He tells me he’d like his electrician to come and see what is really going on. Better safe than sorry.
“OK – that’s fine.” And then I add, “How mush time will we lose?”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll lose any time. It should be pretty simple.”

It’s only Day 2. We are batting a thousand. But Wally isn’t panicking, so neither am I.