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!

The HGTV Application

“I finished the HGTV application,” I said clicking through the photos on my computer.

“I didn’t know they were hiring,” Mr. Wonderful said chomping on a carrot stick.

“I don’t want to work for them.”

“Oh?”

“I want them to work for me.”

“Oh.”

There comes a point in every DIY, fixer-upper’s life when she gets tired of DIY-ing, fixing-upping and having construction dust in her clothes, hair and nasal duct conduits. In short, there comes a time when she wants some professional help so she can put her feet up and drink a glass of Rosé by the pool. As for this DIY, fixer-upper, I had reached that point. Yesterday.

So when I saw an advertisement about HGTV looking for Los Angeles homeowners looking to renovate a room in their house I pounced on the opportunity. Ah-ha! I could have someone else schlep to the home improvement store 16 times in one day, do all the backbreaking labor and get sawdust up their nasal passages, all while improving my house free of charge. What a brilliant plan!  I was a mastermind!

For them to do this, all I needed was to: describe the room to be renovated; include pictures of said room; describe what I wanted for the room.

Easy-peasy. 

Here was my application in three easy steps: 1) The room I wanted renovated was the studio, which needed HGTV or a miracle. 2) The picture I included told the sorry story in a thousand words, as pictures are known to do. And 3) I wanted the space to continue being a place for my mother-in-law to stay, as mothers-in-law are wont to do.

Ta-da! 

“Is that all you had to write for the application?” Mr. Wonderful said nibbling on a celery stick.

“They also wanted to know about us.” 

What I told them about us boiled down to three points: 1) We were recent homeowners in L.A.. 2) So far we had fixed everything up in the house by ourselves. And 3) We liked to laugh.

“Once they realize we’ve done the renovations ourselves,” my spouse said “they’ll know we aren’t laughers but masochists.”

Boy, Mr. Wonderful is hilarious.

“Anything else on the application?” he said chewing on a sliced cucumber.

“I have to tell them what our style is.”

“When you know what our style is, tell me,” he said returning to his vegetable dip.

Boy, Mr. Wonderful was on a roll! Of course we had a style, which I shared with him and the nice folks at HGTV. 

Here’s how I described our style on the application: We weren’t picky although we loved the mid-century modern style mixed with the Mediterranean style to reflect the climate of Southern California, augmented by contemporary leather furniture, mashed up with traditional pieces to anchor us to the past.

“Mid-century modern, Mediterranean, contemporary, traditional?” he said. “That’s not one style but four.”

“We’re eclectic.” 

“They’ll never accept your application.” 

“The key to my application is I say I want them to work in The House for me.”

“Wow. I’m sure they’ll want to do it now,” he said rolling his eyes.

Boy, that Mr. Wonderful. He’s a laugh a minute! 

NEXT: The HGTV Application Decision