Good-Bye To All That

“I’ve been gone for so long,” I said mixing a bottle of water and baby formula for the little bundle in the bassinet.

“So?” Mr. Wonderful said jolting down a cup of espresso.

“I haven’t blogged in months.” 

“It’s okay,” 

“People will wonder where I’ve been.”

“Just tell them.”

“I’ll start with the neighbors.”

Yawning, I shuffled to the driveway for the morning newspaper and saw our local rose specialist digging in his garden.

“Morning, Jerry. Your roses look lovely.”

“Thanks,” he said straightening his San Francisco 49ers cap. Then pointing to our house, “You still live there?”

“I know I’ve not been around much, but that’s because—”

“You have a baby.” I stopped short. “Good thing you put in that low maintenance, drought-tolerant garden. With a baby you won’t be doing much gardening now.” 

What?! “Jerry, how did you know about our baby?”

“Harold told me.”

Just then Charles appeared in his driveway. The dogs were loaded in his car ready for a trip to the dog park.

“Morning, neighbor!” he said with a friendly wave before crossing the street. “Long time no see,” he said giving me a bear hug.

“I know,” I said hugging him back. “I haven’t been around much because—”

“You have a baby.” I stopped short. “Good thing you redid your kitchen. I can’t imagine having a baby and not having a kitchen.”

What?! “Charles, how did you know about our baby?” 

“Harold told me.”

That was so Harold: flapping his lips about news in the neighborhood without even talking to the source of the news. Namely moi. 

Returning to our house I noticed our 86 year-old neighbor sitting in a lawn chair in his driveway.

“Hi Harold, working on your tan?” 

“Which is something you won’t be doing much of with that baby of yours.” I stopped short. “Babies take a lot of time and attention. Good thing you got the house painted. Now there are fewer lead paint flakes for her to eat.” That is so Harold: he’s such a ray of positive sunshine. (Insert sarcastic tone here.)

“How did you know we had a baby? And a girl?”

“I may be old but I’m not deaf or blind. Yet.” He looked at the pink color on his bare arms then stood up. “How’s she doing?”

“The baby’s doing great, but I’m tired. Exhausted really. Plus we still have so much to do on The House, but I can’t imagine redoing anything on it right now.”

“Babies sap your energy. With them, the years are short but the days are long. So enjoy it. All of it,” he said folding up the lawn chair and disappeared into his garage.

Maybe he was right. Maybe they all were right. (Insert tired sigh here.) I should be thankful for what Mr. Wonderful and I had redone and should just enjoy being a mom now. I should say good-bye to all those trips to the home improvement store; good-bye to all those hours comparing tile, and good-bye to all those weeks living in a construction zone. I should say good-bye to all that and just put a pin in home improvement projects, including replacing the sagging patio awning, until our Baby was older. Like 18 years-old older.

I shuffled inside for a cup of tea and back to Mr. Wonderful and our dear Baby.

“What did the neighbors say about our news?” he said while bouncing the Little One on his knee. 

“They already knew we had a baby and a girl. So I guess everyone in the world knows now.”  I sat in the kitchen, took Baby in my arms and kissed her soft cheek. “And that’s fine by me.” My eyes ran from her tiny, perfect eyes, nose and mouth, to her tiny, hands with perfect nails. If the home improvement projects had to stop for a while, including the sagging outdoor awning, because of her, that was okay by me.

Mr. Wonderful pointed to the sagging awning over the patio. “Want to redo the awning?” Was he crazy? Having a baby while fixing up The House was madness. It would take us a gazillion times longer with her. But who was I kidding? 

“Let’s do it!” I didn’t want to sacrifice or settle. I wanted the Baby and (one day) a completely redone DIY house! (Insert a hopeful cheer here.) Even if it meant doing so while living in a construction zone. 

So “Good-bye” to Speedy DIY Projects and “Hello” to Continued, But Slow, Home Improvement with Baby! HOORAY!

Opening Doors

“Want cereal for breakfast?” Mr. Wonderful said setting bowls and spoons on the table.

“Nah”,” I shrugged still wearing my robe and slippers.

“How about some toast?”

“Nah.”

“Crepes?” 

“Naaah.”

Some Saturdays you jump out of bed with a long list of things you want to accomplish and the energy of a Grecian Army to get it all done before the clock strikes midnight. And other Saturdays you just read thick books and lounge in your robe and slippers all day. After all, why change your pajamas when you’re just going to have to put them on again—in 16 hours.

This Saturday I was struck with this “robe and slipper” malaise. First I blamed it on the weather changing to fall, then I realized it was due to being home again after several stimulating trips, finally I decided it was just Mr. Wonderful’s fault. The benefit to being married is that when things go well I can say it’s because of me and when things go south, it’s because of him. He’s so useful that way.

“How about some lunch?” Mr. Wonderful said taking the cheese and sandwich meat out of the refrigerator.

“Nah,” I shrugged not looking up from my 900-page book.

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“Fall. Vacations. Life.” He kinked an eyebrow.

“It’s HGTV,” he said clapping his hands. “Ever since HGTV didn't choose to redo our room, you’ve been bummed out.” 

“Nah—” I shrugged. But he had a point. It just so happened that HGTV vetoing me coincided with the fall nip in the air, returning home after some great getaways, and being married. To be fair most things coincided with me being married now.  “Okay, yes,” I said closing the book. I hate it when he’s right. But more than his correctness, I hated moping around. 

“Just because HGTV doesn’t want to redo our house doesn’t mean that we can’t,” Mr. Wonderful said sitting down at the lunch table with a loaf of warm bread.

My eyes scanned the room. Then moved moved to the hallway, and buzzed through the whole house. How right he was! Yes! We could still improve things. My breathing increased with pent-up excitement. We could redo the bathroom, expand the closets, build a wine cellar!

I sprinted to the bedroom swapping the robe for my painting pants and sweatshirt, my slippers for work boots. Yes! Dirty work! This is what I needed to lift me out of my funk! HGTV be darned! I want my own DIY-ing!

“I’ll start stripping the bathroom walls of paint and you can rip out the closets!” I said marching into the kitchen with a hammer.

“Whoa,” my spouse said dropping his turkey sandwich. “One project at a time.”

“Then let’s build a wine cellar. I want one just like Baron de Rothschild—”

“Let’s start smaller.”

“Expanding the closets?”

“Think tiny.”

“Putting in a whole new bathroom?”

“Itty-bitty.”

“The bathroom door needs to be stripped of paint.”

“That’s perfect,” he nodded. 

“We could remove the door from its hinges, set it on its side and pour paint stripper all over it.” Starting small was a good idea. I love it when he’s right. 

“Are you going to help?” I said tying my boot laces.

“You get started. I’ll be there after I finish this,” he said lifting the sandwich to his mouth and opening my 900-page book to the first page. 

The Decision from the HGTV Application

“Remember that HGTV application I submitted for The House?” I said scanning my email inbox.
“Hmm,” Mr. Wonderful said sipping his coffee.
“They haven’t written back yet to say we’ve been chosen.”
“Hmm.”
“They haven’t called.”
“Hmm.”
“Which means they’ll be knocking on our door soon.”

After filling out an application for having total strangers—but professional ones!—from the HGTV cable channel redo part of our house, I hoped they’d let us know that we had been chosen soon. I really wanted to be chosen especially since our space needed so much help, our lives needed some weekends free of DIY-ing and I needed to drink some Rosé by the pool and watch others work on The House. Selecting our room to be redone on national television was a slam dunk in my mind.

Unfortunately my mind was not making the decision. So hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a long time to wait without word from HGTV.

“Why didn’t they choose us?” I said flopping on the sofa.
“Maybe because you described our style as ‘Mid-century modern, Mediterranean, contemporary, traditional’,” Mr. Wonderful said sitting in an armchair.
“I used all those terms because we’re eclectic.”
“Instead it sounds like we’re schizophrenic.”

Maybe Mr. Wonderful was right and it was my complicated description that made our project untenable for HGTV and knocked us out of the running. Although, if they were professionals wouldn’t they know how to combine those styles for us?
“Let it go,” Mr. Wonderful said because he is wise.  I couldn’t because I’m... not wise.

“They could at least do us the courtesy of letting us know that we weren’t selected,” I said sighing on the sofa.
“And get an angry response from you? Why would they?” Mr. Wonderful said moving toward the kitchen.
“I’m not angry. I’m disappointed.”
“They don’t want to hear from disappointed homeowners,” Mr. Wonderful said making another espresso.
But this disappointed homeowner wanted to hear from them.

Growing up in the Midwest when I was selected or not selected for things, I was informed with a letter: “Congratulations you’ve been selected to attend ____ University.” Or a phone call: “Congrats you made the cut and are on the Spring Soccer Team!” Or the radio: “Due to the heavy snowfall, classes at ____ School have been cancelled.” Hooray!

But not anymore and not in Los Angeles. Now if you aren’t chosen, aren’t selected or don’t win you only know by not hearing anything from emails, phone calls or iChats. Instead it’s the big silence. It’s like inviting people to an event on Facebook. If they don’t RSVP, then you know they aren’t coming. I miss the days of knowing what happened concerning selection or non-selection.

Outside sweeping the front walk clean of the neighbor’s leaves which the wind had blown in, I saw my 86 year-old neighbor shuffling up the street.
“Hi Harold,” I said tossing him a smile.
“A palm frond from your palm tree blew into my yard,” he said matter of factly.
“Sorry. I’ll clean it up,” I said spotting the offending brown frond, and avoiding its jagged teeth, stuffed it into the green bin.

Harold walked to the stop sign and circled back. “There are two of your palm fronds in Jerry’s yard,” he said.
“Thanks, Harold,” I said dropping my broom and rushing over to clear away the fronds from Jerry’s yard and stuff them into the green bin, snagging my fingers on the jagged teeth.

Harold stopped in my driveway. “And there are three of them in the boys’ yard.” I looked over at Charles and Stephen’s yard and noticed three dried palm fronds. They could have come from my trees or they could have been from Charles and Stephen’s own palm trees.
“Ok, Harold,” I said grabbing the three plan fronds and stuffing them into the green bin snagging my hand on the rough teeth. At this point I hadn’t swept a bit of my front walk, I’d ripped my hands to shreds and I was disappointed that the dead palm fronds had made me a bad neighbor.

“And another thing—”
“Stop with the bad news, Harold! I can’t stand hearing bad news!”
He looked at me from behind his eyeglasses, his pale blue eyes the size of dinner plates. He had never seen me like this.
“I was just going to say," he continued. "Thanks for always cleaning your fronds up. You’re a good neighbor.”

The anger faded. The disappointment dissipated. I smiled. I didn’t need to hear bad news about me because it didn’t make me—or others—happy. Give me the big silence on the bad news but shower me with the good news! Bring on the good news! Hey, good news, I'm listening!

Kitchen Remodel: Backsplash Installation

“I got the tiles for the kitchen backsplash,” I told Mr. Wonderful.

“Good,” he said while shaving in the bathroom.

“I got the grout for the tiles.”

“Good.”

“I called the handyman to install it.”

“No way!” he said nicking his chin.

Since buying The House my husband had turned into a Do-It-Yourself maniac.  It started small with him installing handles on the closet doors the week we moved in and grew with each DIY success until now he wanted to single-handedly expand the kitchen to feed 80, add a helicopter landing pad and build a second Griffith Observatory on our roof.  All while working a full time job.  It was crazy.  He was crazy.  He was driving me crazy.

Now he spent hours at hardware stores buying materials.  He spent days on the internet researching DIY projects.  He spent weeks avoiding local handymen. 

One of our neighbors, James, was a certified electrician.  When we first trimmed our palm trees, James thanked us by handing out his business card,

“If you need any electrical repairs, call me,” he said with a wave. 

Instead of seeing this as the friendly gesture it was, Mr. Wonderful viewed it as a challenge to his masculine virility.  I saw his chin jut out in defiance and could hear his brain screaming: Fix our electrical system?  Over my dead body!

So I said goodbye to a weekend with Mr. Wonderful.  And for the next 60 hours I worked, I went to dinner with my girlfriends, I watched every movie at Laemmle’s Polish Film Festival just to avoid being in his hair while he toiled on the remodel.  While I gallivanted around Los Angeles, he prepped the walls, applied the glue and slapped the tile suckers to it. 

Then he rested for two weeks.  After which I, again, became a weekend widow while he spent another weekend applying the grout.  This time I worked overtime at the office, I invited myself to dinner with my girlfriends and their boyfriends, I caught Laemmle’s entire Icelandic Film Fest.  I’d never seen so much ice on film.  During (another) harsh ice film scene I got a text message from Mr. Wonderful.

“Come home."

I returned to the house with coffee, sushi and ice cream.  I entered the kitchen and beheld a finished backsplash and a dirty spouse.

"It’s beautiful,” I gasped.  He ran his grout-encrusted hands through his hair.  He was beautiful.  There was nothing but masculine, virile perfection about him and his work. 

So I decided: If he really wanted to be a DIY maniac… I’d let him.