Another Bathroom Story (or Why I Like Pretty Flowers)

I’m almost done with the bathroom renovations. At least, I thought so. It appears I have skipped the inside of the small built-in cabinet that's near the floor at the end of the room.

When I was preparing to to paint the room, I had to throw everything in boxes, and because there were no other options, I lugged the boxes into my bedroom.

Normally, under the “best” of circumstances, there is about a 20” wide path that goes from my bedroom door to the windows on the opposite wall. This 20” is at the widest dimension (picture a snake swallowing a rat). This path is surrounded by my bed on one side and by three to four foot high piles of “stuff” everywhere else.

In fairness, some of this “stuff” is actually mine- mostly clothes and books. If you’re a reasonable person, you’re probably wondering why I don’t put my clothes in the closet. It’s the same reason I don’t put the books in my closet. I can’t get to it. And even if I could, I have the same problem going on inside my closet, except smaller. At least, as far as I can remember I do. So, the only place I could find to put those boxes of “toiletries” was in the now even more congested bedroom path.

When it came time to empty that last bathroom cabinet, I removed the door- and faced what looked like my room in miniature or my closet in mini-miniature (at least as far as I can remember). Stuff was packed full into the small opening, flush with the face of the wall. I already knew this was the case, but still, I stared at it- dumbfounded. While I stared, a container of baby powder and two tubes of toothpaste fell out onto the floor.

I decided to say “Forget it”. Even if I had the desire or ambition to dig through all of that stuff, which I didn't, the only place I had to put yet another box of stuff was to squeeze it into the path in my bedroom- a path that was now almost completely choking off my getting to the bed. So instead, I scraped away enough of the junk back from the edge of the cabinet so that it wouldn't avalanche onto the eventually wet paint- and off I went to prep the room- my heart filled with joy!

After a week or so of scraping and patching and sanding (all of which took place after the "Choosing the Tile Color and Paint Color, and How the Hell Am I Going to Pay For All of This" ordeal), I finally finished painting this past Saturday. Yesterday was spent re-outfitting the room with all of the things I had unfastened from the walls- the towel bar, cabinet doors and the like. I announced that I was officially done and I went and fished through the boxes in the bedroom and took what I could find of my stuff. After I washed off the strata of baby powder and dust that coated the razors and bars of soap, I put them in their spiffy new home.

Last night, I was asked about the little low cabinet at the end of the bathroom.

"Are you done with the bathroom?"
"Yes."

*Silence*

"Did you know that you didn't paint the inside of that small cabinet?"
"Yes."

*Silence*

"Oh, I thought maybe you forgot."
"No, I didn't forget. I wasn't planning on it."

*Silence*

*Silence*

"Did you run out of paint?"
"No."

*Silence*

*Silence*

"Oh, I thought maybe you didn't finish it because you ran out of paint."
"No."

*Silence*

*Silence*

*Silence*

"I’ll move the rest of that stuff when you finish it."

*Silence*

*Silence*


*Silence*



*Silence*


(I like pretty flowers)

-The End.

Friday Night Video

My one and only bathroom is getting redone. I know this comes as a shock to most of my readers out there. I don't mean because of the fact that I’m redoing my bathroom (or more accurately, the contractor is), but because of the fact that I only have one bathroom. I’m sure that many of you out there in the void envision me in my smoking jacket, counting my money as I stroll through my sprawling, stately manor which sits on a mountain top overlooking the hovel below. Coincidentally, that’s how I envision me as well. But sad to say, it is not one hundred percent accurate.

We bought this house from an elderly couple many years ago. This couple loved to smoke and they loved the color green. Much of this house was green, inside and out- except a couple of the small rooms upstairs, all the ceilings and the living room rug. The small rooms were pretty much fine with some minor tweaking. The ceilings however were a lovely shade of nicotine brown and the living room rug was a subtle deep red mixed with flecks of black. I don't think it was from the depression era, unless you consider "Depression Era" to be a particular style. 

I got rid of the smoke infused rug right away and I washed and painted over the ceilings- and almost all of the green. One area of green that I never changed was the bathroom- not the tiles anyway.

Much of the bathroom, including inside the shower, was covered in green four inch square tiles. When we moved in, I had assumed these tiles were ceramic, but they weren't. They were plastic. As I found out, the thing about plastic tiles is that they move around in the humidity from the shower and this loosens them up. Occasionally, one or two of these would drop off. Occasionally, a bunch of them would drop off. Gluing them back on never seemed to last too long. Judging from the fairly sound condition of the nicotine stained grout, I was pretty sure this had never happened to the elderly couple. In hindsight, I chalked this up to the well documented fact that most elderly people don’t bathe.

So, time goes by and tiles loosen up. We flash forward to several years later to when Sam is taking a shower in a stall that looks like a poorly made patchwork quilt. And Sam, being Sam, who likes to pick at things, goes to work. I came in later to a pile of previously loose and semi-loose tiles, now sitting at the bottom of my bathroom tub.

I make it sound like this was Sam’s fault, but it’s wasn’t. Once again, I had no one to blame but myself. I waited too long to do something about it (see my faucet story buried somewhere in here), and now I had a bigger mess on my hands. I was able to stick most of the tiles back on with various unsuccessful adhesives. Most of them didn't stay put.

Flash forward (again) to a couple of weeks ago when I find I'm finally forced to do something about it. The first step, after figuring out if I could afford to do it (a very painful story in itself- which I can't tell for legal reasons) was to find someone who would do the work. A couple of inquiries turned into a commitment and this pretty much set the pattern for the rest of the job spiraling out of control. 

The next step was to pick out a tile color and to get the tiles before the contractor started tearing things apart. I did my best to avoid being involved in the whole excruciating color selection process, for several reasons (thanks Helaina), which I can't mention- again for legal reasons. After the painstaking color selection process was over, we were ready to roll.

On the big day, I hung around and waited for the workers to show up. I wanted to show one of them where the water main shut-off was "just in case".  It turns out he didn't feel it was necessary, but I led him down the basement anyway. To no one's surprise but mine, it was completely inaccessible behind boxes crap stacked several feet deep. Forty-five minutes later, I showed him where it was and then left for work. Two hours later, I got a phone call from the contractor asking me who my plumber was. 

I won't go into all of the gory details- at least not now and probably not ever. Let's just say that my three day job wrapped up close to a week and a half later. Part of this was because the size of the job doubled in size- which due to legal reasons, I won't mention. But it also involved three unscheduled visits from a plumber, two unscheduled visits from an electrician, multiple trips of my own to several hardware stores, a new fan, new lights and all of the associated costs that you would expect to go with it. I can't blame the contractor for any of this. They were decent enough. A fair amount of this was, shall we say, "self inflicted"- at least that's what I'm saying for legal reasons. But it's almost over. All that's left now is to find better lights and, unfortunately, "we" still need to pick out a paint color (which I can't talk about for legal reasons). 

All of this brings us to tonight's clip. Enjoy.

Signs of Spring

The snow is finally starting to melt off of the Christmas tree that was unceremoniously dumped on the front lawn the week after Christmas.

Today's News

Is there a more intelligent individual than that which posts comments on the local news website? I don’t think so. Those committed citizens take time from their busy schedules to share with us their sharp observations of today’s hottest news stories. For example:

There’s a brief story on the website today about two people dragging a fifteen foot inflatable pool out of a pool supply store. When the clerk asked if they needed help, one of the “customers” pulled a handgun on them and said “We got it”. That’s the story.

Sharp Observer #1 (not his or her real name) writes in to say, “armed robbery for an imflatable [sic] pool? it has to have some other use, especially that it's winter now.” End of comment. Thank-you Sharp Observer #1. I’m sure the police hadn’t looked at it from that angle. No doubt they will be in touch with you shortly to further glean leads from that computer-like mind of yours. Also- be proud that you have apparently intimidated all other commentators from writing in, since you seem to have nearly solved the case.

In another story, a hiker had to be rescued when he decided to take a different trail back to his car- and he ended up getting stuck on the side of a mountain. The story didn’t explicitly say how the hapless hiker managed to contact authorities, but Sharp Observer #2 deduced the answer: “I guess he had his cell phone with him...good thing. What would have happened if cell phones weren't invented?” Yes, what indeed. Thank-you for taking the time to post that invaluable comment Sharp Observer #2. That is the kind of deep insight that would never have occurred to an uninquisitive individual like myself.

Finally, for today’s top story (yes, there are even bigger stories than a stolen inflatable pool and a hiker getting stuck), we have a tale about an off-campus party at the semi-local university. In a devastating shock to the community, this party apparently got out of hand when thousands of kids showed up, got drunk and began urinating on neighbors lawns. Needless to say this story generated quite a bit of incisive, often heated commentary. Here is but a small sampling of a few of the more coherent comments:

Sharp Observer #3 says, “Sad abuse of young adult exuberance...have fun, but act responsibly, respectfully. Use moderation and always choose a sober person as a designated driver.” Thank-you for that, Sharp Observer #3. Not sure how the designated driver thing plays into it, but it feels like it comes close. I’m sure there is a lesson to be learned somewhere in those wise words.

Sharp Observer #4 says, “Their white skin will deflect their bad entitled behavior. Not surprised that white kids can't understand why someone wouldn't want them on their lawn urinating their [sic] just having fun.” This was seconded by Sharp Observer #4.1 whose only response was, “could’t [sic] agree more”. Speaking as a person with white skin and plenty of bad entitled behavior, I can confirm that they speak the truth. I for one, have never understood why my neighbor continually objects to me urinating on his lawn.

Scattered among the various calls for blood and retribution, one lone voice points a different direction. This young commenter, nattily dressed in a brightly tie-dyed tee shirt and white skin (if his profile picture is to be believed) sees an opportunity to make some kind of a point. Says he: “Perhaps if the University found a way to promote the use of recreational cannabis (having been decriminalized in this state) as an alternative to alcohol, some of the students who would otherwise be unleashing destruction all around them would instead just stay in their dorm rooms, listen to some tunes, and order takeout.”

Ah the innocence of youth! Thank you for your thoughtful, albeit misguided opinion, young lad- but please go back to “Mother Jones” magazine and leave this valuable space for the more perceptive, frequently self-righteous and often acrimonious commentators- just as it was intended.

I’m not positive, but I get the sense that many of these commentators have no one around willing to listen to them anymore. So, having worn out their welcome, they have in turn taken to regaling us, the general public, with their astute and refreshing observations. This is a win-win for all of us (or a win-win-win if you include the relatives that no longer have to listen to them). Thanks to all of you fine citizens out there who spend your days perusing the websites of America looking for welfare cheats and offering your own semi-educated, often baseless opinions on some of the most important stories of the day. Stay vigilant!

Today's Link

I don't usually link to other posts (unless they're videos- in which case I do it constantly), but I found this to be pretty funny.

Updating My Status

Me (foreground), my life (everything else).

Choose the correct caption:
A) Help!
B) I can't stand it anymore.
D) Please shoot me.
C) I like pretty flowers.

Twenty-Five Years Ago

Rachael was born on a very cold Friday morning. She was a scheduled C-section and while Helaina was as well, Helaina wasn’t scheduled to be. It just worked out that way. But Rachael’s delivery was scheduled early on. I can’t say whether it was better or worse this way - but it was certainly different. There’s something about knowing the finite point when your child will be born that makes the anticipation more intense. At least, that's the way it was for me.

So, she was born on a cold Friday morning - eyes wide open from the moment they handed her to me (and , incidentally, poking her fingers into her eyes - a habit she kept up for several years to come). In hindsight, the eyes-wide-open should have tipped me off - to her intellect, to her curiosity, to her desire to get the show going. But I was unaware of these things, at first.

One of my many regrets in life is that when Rachael was a baby, I often compared her to Helaina. But Rachael's style was different than Helaina’s and it took me a while to see this for what it was.

This was a huge lesson that Rachael taught me early on - that she was an individual and should be looked at on her own terms. I don’t quite remember what she was doing when this revelation hit me, but when it did, it was profound. I remember thinking, “Of course she’s not doing this the same way as her sister. She’s her own person!” And everything came flooding into perspective. Rachael had been showing me her own unique pallet of colors and I had been looking at them all wrong. 

Once this hit me, it was like finding buried treasure.

I struggle to write about Rachael - not because I can't think of what to say, but because there are so many memories, so much that I think about. How do you pull droplets out of a rushing stream?

I think about Rachael as an infant, letting me rock her at bedtime.Clearly, this was something she was doing for me. I would hold her against me as we sat in the rocking chair - ready to rock her for however long she wanted - which, as it turned out, usually wasn’t for very long.

 

I would just be getting warmed up when, after only a few short minutes, she would push away against my chest and look over at the crib, then up at me. “Really,” I would say, “You want to go to bed already?” And she would smile with those big cheeks of hers, and I would lay her in her bed and cover her up - and give her her own space, grateful that she humored me - until tomorrow night arrived, when we would do this all over again.

I think about her as a toddler, barely able to stand, standing at the coffee table, drawing little circles over and over again. And I think about those little circles becoming little faces, and then people and then scenery - and then on and on and on. 

And I think about all of the artwork, all of the expression that was developing and evolving. And I wonder how much of it was always inside of her, maybe even form birth, just waiting to find a way for her to express it. And for some reason, I think about the flower inside of the seed, waiting to bloom.

I think about coming home from work everyday. The back door would burst open as Helaina and Rachael bounded out to greet me. Helaina would shout, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” and Rachael, barely a toddler, would “jump” up and down, next to her. I’d watch as Helaina would smile and shout, and Rachael would bend her knees, then jerk them straight, throwing her head back each time, over and over again - all the while her feet never left the ground.

I think about going on so many car rides together - giving her the chance to go on about her day - or about whatever else was on her mind - while I sat and drove and enjoyed every minute of it.

I think about her learning to ride a bike - or more specifically, teaching herself to ride a bike. When Helaina wanted to lean to ride a two wheeler, I spent a lot of time, as all parents do, walking, then running alongside her bike, up and down the driveway. Helaina had good balance and it didn't take long before she learned. And at the tail end of teaching Helaina, I remember driving home from work one day thinking, "In another year or so, I'll be doing the same thing with Rachael."

This would have been true, except for the fact that Rachael had been taking all of this in and, whether it was her competitiveness, or simply her desire to keep moving forward, I came home from work to find that she had already taught herself.

So many things stay with me. Going on walks together, looking at the moon, riding the strawberries together at the fair. On and on and on.

All of it means so much to me, but two more things I want to mention.

Under our back porch, among all of the junk and the old toys and the memories, is a small bike, probably rusting, with ivy and leaves painted on it. One day when Rachel was in elementary school, she came home and told me that there was going to be a bicycle contest. She wanted to enter and she wanted to win a bicycle helmet. 

Back then, there was a party store at one end of town. I took Rachael there to select whatever paints and decorations she had in mind. She spent a good deal of time thoughtfully going through things before finally deciding that she would like to check out the decorations at the grocery store on the other end of town. 

So we headed over to the grocery store, where Rachael went trough their decorations in the same methodical way. Ultimately, she decided that she liked the supplies that the party store better, so we headed back and we got her the decorations she needed. 

Rachael spent a good bit of time painting the bike, getting it just the way she wanted. When it came time for the contest, I brought her over to the school and I watched as she and her bike stood in a line-up with all the other kids. The judges walked back and forth in front of them all, stopping occasionally to ponder a particular entry. I watched as Rachael would poke her bike slightly forward, whenever they walked by. 

Rachael won her bike helmet. 

I was always impressed by this - this entire thing. She had heard about this contest, made up her mind that she was going to enter - and she went for it. My role in all of this, as would often be the case, was nothing more than to try to facilitate her in reaching her goal. But the idea, the vision, the creativity - everything - that was all Rachael.

Another thing I often think about is Rachael reading Harry Potter. Back when there was only one, or maybe two Harry Potter books, my sister, Karen, suggested that this might be a book that would interest Rachael - and sure enough, she was right. 

What I remember in particular is Rachael reading this book out loud, in the living room, to me and everyone else. I treasure this memory. It's not the words in the book, and not just her enthusiasm. I'm not sure I can say why. But like so many things, I look back on it fondly and often - and it stays with me.

I also can't say why I chose these particular memories to write about. There is so much there. How do you choose? How do separate all the memories into individual pieces? How do you pull certain droplets out of a stream? 

Maybe you don’t. Maybe you just jump in, let it wash over you and enjoy it while it continues to carry you along for the ride.