Travels with The Rayman

This all started when I played golf in Salinas two weeks ago at the Ladies Invitational.  My friend, Donna, who is a member at the country club recruited her friend, Peggy, to be a part of our “team”.  And this story was fueled by discovering that Peggy’s husband was a duck hunter.  Well, that was interesting to me because I have a friend, Warren, who is also a duck hunter. I think duck hunters are a rare breed of person, mostly men, I guess.  And the rarified duck hunter is usually involved in a duck club.  A duck club is a piece of land that is located in a swampy area (my impression is hard at work here) where grown men have taken their resources and built duck blinds (this is complete conjecture at this point) so they can hide from the unsuspecting fowl that fly over the blinds.  Now, people.  Think about this.  It is cold and damp and wet and very early in the morning and these grown men don their duck hunting ensemble to trudge out to the duck blinds and sit in hiding until until that poor duck flies his way and then I think he jumps up, aims his gun and shoots the living daylights out of the poor duck.  Then a well trained dog leaps from the blind (they all seem to have dogs that have been sent to dog duck training classes, universities, I’m told, so that they can become proficient in, well, locating the dead duck and bringing it back to the blind) and fetches the duck.  One presumes that after all the ammo is gone or the ducks have “ducked and covered”, these grown men trudge back to the house.  Oh, did I mention the house?  Some of the houses at these duck clubs are quite elaborate with scores of bedrooms and bathrooms and a big kitchen.  Perhaps they have a bar too as many stories seem to be involve eating copious amounts of food (probably never the ducks)  and drinking copious amounts of alcohol.  I imagine spitoons, don’t you?  Really, people, these places are big man caves where they can go and be men.  No girlie girlie stuff going on at these places.  In fact, I don’t think any of these clubs have ever had a woman visit.  That means that duck clubs are a lot like mosques where women may not enter either.  Just saying.  But it is just as well because as a woman I can think I can vouch for most of us and announce that I do not want to go to a duck club, I don’t want to see the big man cave and I certainly have no interest in eating wild duck.  And as for bowing to Mecca on a carpet…that doesn’t float my boat either.

But I digress.

So, Peggy is married to Bob (I learn on the 6th green of the tourney).   Well, I ask, does Bob know Warren because he is a duck hunter too?  And this is where the story starts to get interesting.  Why, yes he does.  It turns out Bob and Warren went to the same high school in San Jose and graduated the same year and haven’t seen each other since then.  OMG.  What a small world.  But wait.  There is more.  Bob and Peggy have a house in the mountains and these are the same mountains that I and my crazy golfing friends are going to the next week.  What are the chances?  Well, it turns out that Bob and Peggy have a house that just happens to located directly across the fairway from the condos were are renting next week for our week long golfing extravaganza and Bob and Peggy will be there at the same time we will be there.  Well.  What can you say?  The facts in the case are dizzying.

 

But let me back up here and say that we have been going on golfing vacations with this group of people for years and years.  Once a year we veer off our busy lives and save time to get together for a week of golfing fun.  It hasn’t always been easy.  Problems have arisen.  But, we have managed to pull this grand fete off for a very long time.  And that is why I am sitting here blogging because we pulled in yesterday afternoon and the partying commenced with raucous charm.  We all come from various walks of life but golf is the glue that binds here.  We all love the silly game and we have great fun around it.  An example of this is last night.  On the first night of each trip there are a few things that take place.  Always.  1.  We have a meeting and golf games are announced.  This year the theme is Big Break Plumas.  We each pony up $25/person for the games.  2.  We drink too much.  3.  We eat too much.  These are rules that never vary.

So it was last night with the exception that Bob and Peggy joined the group for cocktails.  And that’s when we learned that Bob was President of the senior class in high school.  And we discovered this when we all looked at the high school annual that Bob brought along.  And that is when we also discovered that Warren was a buff swimmer because he was pictured in his speedo in the same album.  What a hoot.  They had quite a reunion and we enjoyed every minute of it.  And we also met Bob’s two labs.  Too much fun.

 

“Speedo” cooks the meat and it’s not duck.

Do you ever feel yourself aging?

What I ask is relevant. Doesn’t getting up out of your easy chair and trotting to the bathroom feel a bit different than it did 5 years ago? 10 years ago? 15 years ago? I think those kinds of questions are relevant at every age, but, as we age these feelings take on added weight because time is getting shorter at a more rapid rate than if you are 20 years old, let’s say. I think we can all agree with that.

The back stoops a bit more, the feet feel a little flatter. Getting up fast might cause dizziness and a fall. The eyes take longer to adjust. Hearing is questionable. “I’m going to the room”, he says. She asks, “Why are you going to get the broom?”.

However, along with the changes that time brings on…isn’t it a hoot? When you ask a stupid question at the Apple Store, you receive one of two looks back your way. 1. Oh, isn’t she sweet?. Or you see 2. the OMG….If I live that long, just shoot me, look. It really is a stitch because 1. you don’t care what the snotty kid thinks 2. You are honestly so confused you feel foolish and silly but what the heck. At least your are trying to keep up with everything, keep in the know, keep modern. Another example, you check yourself out at the grocery store and you hit the wrong key and the whole checkout process starts over. Meanwhile, the self check out line has doubled in length.

Then you do silly things that defy explanation. Forgetting where you park. Losing your keys everyday and every way. Standing in the pantry staring, just staring. Missing that appointment…how many times can I blame my iPhone calendar? and still be believable?

Traveling also makes you feel your aging. Like buying a ticket to the Paris Metro, submerging to the wrong platform, wandering a round in a daze trying to figure it out, and then emerging from the earth only to leave the Metro with the understanding that you just paid 10 pounds to go absolutely no where. Or you take the train the wrong direction. Or you hear your name over the loudspeaker, “Jane Doe please report to the Information Counter. We have your ticket.”…when all along you thought your ticket was in your pocket/purse.

Of course, at the opposite end of that story, you ARE older and you can talk to people in a normal manner to get information. You aren’t affected by hormones and feelings of insecurities so your conversations usually are very successful. This is quite good when, say, negotiating your way out of situations. Getting into something is much easier than getting out of something because to get into something, you must pay. Getting out of something, you expect the other party to pay you. So, talking to people is a very important skill. And it does seem to improve with age.

But, I digress. Lost my way, perhaps. Who cares?

The point is…what was the point? Oh, I don’t know. I just got up to go to the bathroom and felt myself aging and thought I would reflect on it for the fun of it. Anyway, 999 channels and nothing is on. Realtime just finished. Nothing else worth watching is coming on. So, blogging is a good activity.

Today, I tried to fix a problem. And it is complicated. We wanted to get xm-sirius radio in the Lexus. Lexus wanted an arm and a leg. So we were told about a unit we could buy after-market. On the internet. A company in Texas. What could possibly go wrong? We approached a local biz to install the unit and antenna. They did. It worked about 3 days. Then it didn’t work. We had just paid a biz to install a faulty unit THAT THEY DID NOT SELL US. And then the unit went south. That is when we discovered that the company in Texas will not refund anything for any reason. In the meantime the local guy gets paid to install the unit and then gets paid for uninstalling it. We get the privilege of paying $13 to return the broken part so that the Texas company can send us a replacement part that we now don’t need because we had the installers put in a new unit with the agreement that they would add the unit we were receiving from Texas into their inventory and give us a store credit. Holy smokes. And when we left the installer, the XM worked. Only one day a few days later, it quit working. So, the Rayman called the installer and the installer had the Rayman drive the car in and he checked everything and everything was OUR fault because we had forgotten to register the new box with Sirius. If we were “with it,” we would have intuitively known that…but, hey, we’re old geezers now and sometimes lucky to find our car at the mall.

But I digress.

So, Rayman brought the car home with the instructions to get the unit registered. All things in this area of expertise must be handled by me. He hasn’t got the patience and in defense of aging, he has never had the patience to handle this kind of stuff.

So, these XM people needed our unit’s number. Well, howdy dowdy…how do you get that? You turn on your XM radio and the unit gives you the number on channel zero. Only our unit does no such thing. So, the XM lady sends me out to the car and tells me to turn it on, turn the radio on, look for channel 0. No channel 0 is forthcoming. Channels 1 thru 7 is all I get. At first, I can hear those channels. Then the talking goes away. So, I decide after a while, I think I will back out of the garage. The woman on the other end of the phone says, “You are in your garage?” (hear “what kind of an imbecile are you, lady?”). So, I back out and things do not improve. Then Rayman returns from the hardware store and I tell him what’s happening and he says, “We have the unit’s number on the receipt. I told you that.” (another imbecile moment, perhaps?) So, Rayman finds the receipt while I stay seated in the car talking with the XM lady. So, 50 minutes after I started the conversation, I got the XM to work. And that’s after untold dollars to install and remove the Texas unit, then install a new unit, double check the antenna connection and so forth. And so the woman at the other end of the phone takes pity on my and offers me three months of free XM service on the new unit. “Just call this, xxx-xxx-xxxx and they will give you three months of free service.” And when I call that number, the man on the phone said, no. “You only get one month.”
Some signs of aging perhaps? But it was fun because if that hadn’t happened, I would not have taken the time to blog because life would have been too boring to report. So, aging really does wonders for the boredom factor. We are rarely bored. We are not working in a cubicle with deadlines and milestones and ladder-climbing bosses. We’re just moving though a speeding up time continuum trying to get life to work for us and that’s great fun, really. Just traveling with the Rayman through time.

On-line shopping is so convenient.  I’ve been doing it for years because we have few shopping possibilities here on the central coast.  Our only real department store closed years ago and it has fallen upon me to continue my buying habits by logging on instead of dropping in.

Really, the only problem I have had is once on ebay, a woman sent me something that did not remotely look like the article pictured on ebay.  A complaint was filed and resolved.  Neat and tidy.  A hassle?  of course, but there are always hassles along the road of life.

So, you can understand that went I needed some new bras, I turned again to the internet and found a retailer DBA HerRoom.com   They carried my brand.  They carried my size.  Fabulous.  So for the past year, I have been ordering a bra now and then as I threw an old one in the garbage.  Now, I don’t know about you ladies, but I buy expensive pedestrian bras.  They go with me to play golf.  They go with me to farmer’s market, to wine tasting, to the kitchen.  Sturdy, utilitarian are two words that come to mind.  So when I saw a picture on HerRoom of a bra of the brand I favor in a blue and white animal print, it grabbed my attention.  What a fun looking contraption.  I need one of those.  Just for fun.

Size was selected and the animal print bra was in the cart.  But wait, for a few dollars more I could save on shipping.  You know that game, right?  So, I ordered a pair of panties.  Size was selected and placed in the cart.  Presto magic.  My new garments were on their way.

A few days later, my unmentionables arrived.  Only the fit wasn’t so great.  Oh, well.  I know women who order shoes in a couple of sizes on the internets and then return those that don’t fit.  Perfect.  I ordered another bra in another size and another pair of panties.  After they arrived, I selected the size I wanted and waltzed down to the mailbox store to ship back the two items that were wrong in size.

A few days later a credit appeared for the panties on my paypal account.  No bra.  Well, that must be an oversight I decided.  So, I started up an on-line chat where I was told that the warehouse would need to be notified, bra found, credit given.  A few days went by but no credit appeared.  In the meantime, I was enjoying my blue and white animal bra.  Comfortable and stylish.  What’s next, I wondered?  The red hat society?

The credit was not forthcoming.  I called and spoke with Karen.  She listened to my story and surprise of surprises, she told me she would have to contact the warehouse so that they could locate the missing bra and credit my account.  She promised to do it right away.  I waited and called back again.  Spoke with Sandy.  Same thing happened.  She assured me the warehouse had been contacted and they would be getting back to me.

Now, most of you know me as reasonable most of the time.  Patient most of the time.  This was not going to be one of those times.  And it came down like this.

One ringy dingy.  Two ringy dingies.  “Hello, this is Vanessa, how may I help you today.” (Name is completely made up to protect the guilty).

Me:  this is where I explained again my situation ending with, “I’d like to get this resolved today.”

Vanessa:  “Well, ….(here is where she gives me the same baloney about the warehouse), and so we’ll have to wait for the warehouse.”

Me:  “I have been waiting for the warehouse for 10 days.  I need to speak to a supervisor.”

Vanessa:  “I can help you.”

Me:  “No, you can’t.  You just told me I must wait for the warehouse and I’ve been waiting for the warehouse for 10 days, SINCE 6/17.

VANESSA:  “Well, maaaaammmmm (deep Texas drawl as she is speaking from Texas.)

Me:  “I want to speak with a supervisor.”

Vanessa:  “I am the supervisor.”

Me:  “Really?”  (great incredulousness obvious in my tone of voice).

Vanessa:  “Yes, maaaaaammmmmmm.”

Me:  “Well, then I would like to get my money back.”

Vanessa:  “Well, maaaaammmmmmm.”  I need to contact the warehouse and they have to verify the weight of the package you returned to see if, in fact, you returned the bra.  I can’t just take your word for it and give you a credit.”

 

Me:  “ YOUR COMPANY HAS BEEN CHECKING WITH THE WAREHOUSE FOR 10 DAYS, GOD DAMN IT.  I WANT TO SPEAK WITH THE SUPERVISOR OF THE WAREHOUSE.”

 

Vanessa:  “There is no need to swear at me.  I’m not swearing at you.” (at this point I am under the impression that this line has been used a lot, it came out so easily).

Me:  “OKAY FINE.  I WANT TO SPEAK TO THE SUPERVISOR OF THE WAREHOUSE.”

Vanessa:  “You can’t.”

Me:  “WHY?”

Vanessa:  “He is unavailable.”

Me:  “UNAVAILABLE?  WHY IS HE UNAVAILABLE?

Vanessa:  “His shift ends at 4 p.m. and he has gone home to his family.  (at this point I am picturing HerRoom as a low slung older house in Houston in a middle class neighborhood with a garage filled with underwear.)

Me:  “THEN I WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO THE OWNER BECAUSE I AM REALLY TIRED OF THE RUNAROUND HERE.”

An aside – Vanessa’s co-workers must hear me screaming because one of them says to her, “Why is she mad?”  Vanessa answers, “I don’t know why.”

Me:  “YOU DON’T KNOW WHY I’M MAD?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

Vanessa:  “I don’t have to listen to you.”

Me:  “I WANT TO SPEAK WITH THE OWNER.”

Vanessa:  “You may not speak with the owner.”

Me:  “WHY?”

Vanessa:  “She doesn’t speak to people.”

Any woman who has had a facial or encountered a salesperson pushing skin products knows the word exfoliation.  Men, on the other hand, probably think of agent orange when the word exfoliation is mentioned.  My usage of the word applies to the ladies version of the word in this tome.

But I digress.

We are here in the desert of southern California affectionately known as Palm Desert.  It has a few palms and a little desert converted by water many years ago to a green, verdant land of golf courses, country clubs behind gates with associated homes together referred to as gated communities (to keep the riffraff out, I presume), strip malls galore, and miles and miles of roadways with lots and lots of stop lights used to stop traffic so all the old people don’t plow into each other.  Personally, this would be a great place for round-a-bouts.  Less idling BMWs, Audis, Mercs (Mercedes) and more moving BMWs, Audis, Mercs.  The roads are long and straight and would easily accommodate the usage of round-a-bouts but that is a story of missed opportunity at this point.  Guessing that Palm Desert, Palm Springs, Cathedral City, Rancho Mirage et al is filled to the gills with Republicans (remember, this is the home to Mary Bono, Sonny’s widow who served the district well for many years until she married Connie Mack and then somehow both of them lost the last election), I can only assume, a great hew and a cry would fill the desert with a collective NO if the subject was ever brought up for discussion.  Really, people, you have to admit that the Republicans have morphed into the party of NO.

But I digress.

When the weather isn’t busy being fabulous here, it can get downright disagreeable and so it did the past 48 hours or so.  Furious winds battered this part of CA and we were here to bare witness.  Lucky us.  You know the wind has blown when you receive a “guest message” on your phone announcing that the pool will be closed due to the pile of sand at it’s bottom.  That, folks, is some wind mixed with sand.  And that is also how I got exfoliated.  Playing golf, walking, being outdoors in any capacity was like an exfoliation.  My skin feels so smooth like I just spent an hour and a half getting a facial.  And our car.  I’m surprised there is any paint left on it.  What is on it is a thick layer of dust.  You know the kind where you can write “Wash Me”  on it so everyone can see the near depravity of the owner that refused to take water and soap to the machine.  And it was with this in mind that after golf yesterday, the Rayman and I set out to find a car wash.  With the aid of our iPhones, we googled ‘car wash’ and chose one near by.  Near by is really an oxymoron.  Many miles must be traversed to get any where.  This is not a land of walkers unless they do all their walking inside their gated communities.  Everyone is car-bound.  Including us as we zoom toward that carwash.  Of course, we get confused, make a wrong turn.  Snarling takes place.  Recriminations can be heard until I tell the Rayman he can read the damn phone and I’ll drive.  Silence ensues.  Perhaps a garruff is uttered.  We then arrive at the closed carwash.  Yes, the carwash was closed.  How can a carwash go out of business in the land of the sand?  Well, this would not stand.  Another wash is googled and off we traipse going farther south.  We arrive.  This carwash is closed.  WHAT?

The casual reader at this time may be wondering why we were so desperate to wash the car as wind was predicted again.  That’s because the night before, a back window of the car was left open a crack and the inside of the car was covered with the offending sand.  It felt gritty and needed attention.  Who knew that much sand could get inside with the window opened just a crack?  The law of physics have been debunked, it seems.  So, we returned to the resort and the Rayman took a cloth down and hand-wiped the car’s insides.   But really, people, what is it with the car washes in this town?

All this was a cause to drink.  We met our long suffering friends, Tom and Ruth, at the bar of the Nick Faldo restaurant, on campus, as it were to drink and eat.  In that order.  They beat us to the bar and when we arrives, Tom was mentioning, just mentioning that “this is the worst martini I have ever had.  This bartender is a joke.”  So, the Rayman ordered a martini, expecting perhaps a different experience?  He ordered call liquor and a twist with his drink and he seems satisfied.  I ordered a glass of red wine.  Meridian was the house wine.  Forget that.  I ordered an Australian wine so that I could drink to that darling Adam Scott, victorious at last at the Masters on Sunday.  He is so good looking and did you see his double victory celebration?  It was enough to make one blush with all that thrusting about.

But I digress.

Well, the bartender, Denny, could not find the Windmount Shiraz (perfect name for the moment, though I maybe really forgot the name of the winery but this is a close guess as is the bartender’s name) so off he went to the bowels of the building only to return empty handed.  No Windmount Shiraz in the back.  So I settled for a Greg Norman Shiraz which he had only a 1/4 glassful left in the opened bottle.  This necessitated a wine bottle opener.  Yes, that’s right.  You guessed it.  He could not find the bottle opener.  No I am not making this up, people.  So off he went looking for a bottle opener.  Apparently, this bar/restaurant only has one opener and the waiter had it.  Who knew?  The thing Denny did right was he threw the old wine away and gave me a glass of the newly opened Shiraz.  Tom was not so lucky.  His martini that he hated was ordered as a martini on the rocks with two olives.  He was delivered a martini on the rocks with a twist of lime.  After the bottle opening escapade, I can understand Tom’s harsh assessment.  But it was a hoot.

Really, the only other thing that happened is when I intimated killing the Rayman with a fork at the table over dinner.  He was in a “mood” today and murder by fork, while not seriously contemplated, indicated that some sort of retribution might have been nice.  Twit.  Grouch.  These are terms that come to mind.  Of perhaps the old tried and true, ‘got up on the wrong side of the bed’ could be referenced here.  He was just out of sorts and we all noticed.  But rather than spend any more space on his mental condition, may I say that it lead to a conversation over dinner about some crazy woman stabbing her husband/boyfriend (I forget) 27 times and slitting his throat.  Apparently a trial is on-going on this grizzly event and apparently the prosecutor asked her if she remembered stabbing him once.  No she didn’t.  Did she remember stabbing him twice.  No, she didn’t remember.  And this line of questioning continued for all 27 stabs.  Quite a ploy if you ask me.  No, she did not remember any of the stabs.  Tom would remember this because he is a retired LAPD officer and, well, he finds trials funny.  Like when Mark Furhmann swore under other at the O.J. trial that he had never used the ‘N’ word.  Tom said every guy in the station said, “What the f..k?  Did he really just say that…under oath.”  Yes, Tom is quite enamored with trials in a very funny way.  He can really tell a funny story based on facts.  We all howled.

Then we braved the wind the returned to our respective rooms, taking shelter from the wind and the sand, because, quite frankly, I don’t need to be exfoliated any more today.

And where does the ocotillo come in?  The ocotillos are in the bloom right now and they have lost a great many of their orange/red flowers to the sand.  Plus, I feel like an ocotillo as I expressed in my Facebook page a few days removed.  Prickly and spindly or something like that.  But things are looking up.  Less wind is forecasted and I’m hoping for a hole in one.  Missed one by 6 inches yesterday!!  Perhaps my only good shot, but oh, what a shot!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

At what point in time does the bathroom become the story?  We have been in the throws of not one, but two remodels since we moved in last August.  The thing is, these bathrooms needed help.  Oh, I know.  I suppose that we could have tried to bolster up the 60’s look by keeping what we had and repairing it, painting it, yada, yada, yada.  But hey, there aren’t that many years left so in addition to our baths changing, our relationship with money is also changing.  This is due in part to the observations that

1.) we can’t take it with us  2.) we are really getting old, the “I can’t remember shit”  kind of old   3.) We’ve got to take our meds old.  4.)  what are we saving it for anyway old   6.)  OMG, I have chicken neck old.  7.)  The two advil remedy after golf old.  5.)  The OMG, I left out the number 5 old.

But, I digress.

The bathroom (and when I say bathroom, I mean both but I don’t want to use it because the word ‘bathroom’ it sounds better than ‘bathrooms’.  Agreed?  The bathroom was history.  It was time to take matter into our own hands by hiring Stevie Wonder to re-do the bath.  Which tells you all you need to know about our new relationship with money.  (I’m sure that it was perfectly obvious to you, but I’m not taking any chances).  It just occurred to me that what I just wrote would make a great greeting card (the comment in the parentheses above).  Really?  I actually spelled that right?   A miracle occurs because since I studied french on Rosetta Stone, I can’t spell at all anymore.  Just an aside.

Back to Stevie Wonder.  Little did we know that he would be as entertaining as he is…when we first met him although all the signs were there.  But we were sober.  So…he has been interesting to be around for what seems like an eternity but only because we are sleeping on a guest room bed in a guest room, hell…our only other bedroom) and because there is so much darn dust (read the Dust Bowl blog), and because sometimes you just want to be alone together if you get my drift…drifting as I do to the next segue which is that Stevie is nothing short of amazing.  He arrives early most days with more than 20 peoples’ energy clumped together…I will not speculate.  I report, you decide.  Anyway, I get jacked up just being around him as the nervous energy in the room is ratcheted up to the point where I feel a distinct need to jump up and do something…it’s infectious.  Which can be good or bad.  I report.  You decide.

But, well, where the heck am I? I’ve pursued so many rabbit trails, and twisted and turned so much, I distracted myself.  Have you ever done that?  (That was a tongue-in-cheek question).  On the chance that has never happened to you, though, may I say that the bathroom and Stevie Wonder were to collide and keep things in a state of semi-upheaval for months.

Just a bathroom.  Only a bathroom.  Well, the bathroom is probably the first or second most important room in the house because you can do things in there that you can’t do in the rest of the house.  So, the bathroom has established it’s supremacy in our life.  Consider that you can chop a radish in a bathroom.  I rest my case.  Anyway, with it’s necessary status, a bath cannot, on my view, be trifled with.  So, we embarked upon the remodeling project.

But I digress.

Stevie Wonder found us.  We did not find him.  The first morning we were moving in he flew up our cul-de-sac, stopping to introduce himself and explain that he had done a lot of work for the previous owners, and he knew the house in and out, and he could do 80% of the trades because he was a general with vast experience, and because he was working next door to completely remodel the vacant house (lost in the housing bubble and subsequently bought by a spec guy for a quick fix-up and turnaround sale)…and he’d be happy to show us his work so that if ever there is anything that you need to be done…”well, I can do it.”  It was like a given, then.  That was it.  Stevie was our guy.  So much for competitive bidding, shopping around.  No.  Stevie was a gut instinct call with absolutely no researching, no bids.  No nothing.

Actually, we tried out Stevie Wonder.  We need to have some electrical work done.  A local business gave us a bid for 8 hours@$80 an hour.  Stevie said he could do it less time and at $40.  Stevie said he’d do it for $250.  We paid him $300.  Quick and efficient and clean/tidy.  I guess that was our research.

Contractors get a bad wrap.  All kinds of horror stories accompany many house remodels.  It is ripe for the taking…all the “bad” stories.  This is unfortunate because many of these people are really good.  My thinking is that perhaps our expectations are out of whack.   First of all, many of them never went to college.  They are in my mind, akin to a seagull.  If they don’t work, they don’t get paid.  If the seagull doesn’t eat, oh, never rmind.    You get my drift.  Contractors are from the school of hard knocks, the learn-by-doing people.  They are extremely knowledgeable  Some, like all other professions, are untrustworthy, some slow (the perfectionist?), some too-too.  The list goes on.  However, I think they still get a bad wrap.  We, the people that need this service bear some responsibility too.  Knowing what we want (eek, what do I want?).  It all boils down to knowing what we require in a bathroom.  Not want, but require.  My “want” bath looks a whole lot different than my “require” bath.  My want would have heated floors.  My want bath would include a bathtub.  What I require along with the Rayman is a shower, a toilet, two sinks and a medicine cabinet.  Oh, and a towel warmer.  These were requirements (oops, for the master bath).  The guest bath is without a towel warmer and one sink and a medicine cabinet.

Once the requirements are determined further headache producing decisions must be made.  OMG.  Cabinet tops, lights, light switches, tile, floor plan, flooring, cabinets, shower door, hinges, towel racks, lights of many different kinds, an exhaust fan.  Exhausting list.  Really.

And I must report that minds were changed, ideas were changed, solutions were changed.  Everything was open to change and change did occur.  It’s the nature of the beast.  You cannot foresee something, like who’s the next Pope?  And why would I think of that right now because the Pope and the church he “rules” is one of the institutions/organizations in existence on the plant that are NOT open to change?  Why is that?  Why do religions not evolve with the times like most other things?  Just saying.

But I digress.

So, whether you agree or not, I hope you at least see my point(s).  Here’s a picture of the old master bath.

 

 

And here it is under construction.  One of the things we decided to do in the middle of the project was to raise the ceiling.  Who knew there was that much room up there?  We also decided to order an extra bank of drawers thinking our vanities only had 1 drawer each.  Wrong.  They each have 4.  Oh, well, how stupid can you get?  Then we selected tile and then deselected tile.  There were many trips to the tile store…which is in the south end of Paso Robles.

 

 

Then there was the day that there was so much refuse out in the yard, we broke down and the Rayman and the Wonder loaded as much garbage in as few as garbage bags as possible (big heavy duty black bags) so that when I drove over to the landfill, I was unable to hoist them into the garbage bins.  Heck, I could hardly get them out of the car.  So, I had to take out pieces of plywood, hardwood floor (lots of that), sheet rock that had gotten wet, tape, lumber of various shapes and sides, yards of visquene. (how do you spell that?)  Boxes were smashed and wet.  So, there I am at the landfill heaving building materials over the side of the dumpster until the bags were light enough that I could lift them to shoulder height to throw them away.  It took a long time.  And it was messy.  And it was hot in Atascadero.  And I think I can identify three bruises on my legs that I managed to secure while dumping the trash.  What were those guys thinking?

 

 

In the middle of all this, consider that our contractor was having relationship problems with his lady friend.  So, this meant that before work started, sharing commenced.  Mostly we listened.  And we heard a lot.  Then there was the lawyer that he had hired for some legal work that called him one day after Stevie had paid him thousands to say that his (the lawyer’s) license had just been suspended.  Off he went in a cloud of dust to the local bar association where he found a new, reputable firm that could help him, maybe.  Additionally, he stopped or tried to stop smoking.  All this made our job extremely interesting…not the run of the mill kind of job you might expect.  It was like true confessions, Payton Place, and some sit-com wrapped all up altogether.   “But, when are you going to install the toilet?” , I’d inquire.  “Well, Duncan (a previous client) called and the water heater broke, and I have to go help him fix it today.”  Or how about this.  “What are you going to work on today?”, Rayman would say.  “Oh, I’ll do the tile but I have to chase the grout line and three tiles broke and there’s a problem with the …yada yada yada.”  Whereas the fellow that installed the hardwood for us when we moved in barely spoke, Stevie Wonder has been extremely verbal.  And he talks really fast and half the time I’m left wondering what the heck was his point anyway.  It is a hoot.  Some days when he arrives, usually around 8 a.m., he is so wired that it is best to just get out of the way.  He apparently partakes of some drink like Jolt that infuses him with all that enthusiasm.  And here is where I get to say that Stevie Wonder is nothing if not enthusiastic most of the time.  Eager to please always easy to reach are two of his more enduring qualities.  And he works 6 days a week usually from 8 to 2 with time out for lunch which I make him when I’m home.  Oh, and did I mention that he goes to church religiously?  So we banter quite a bit…especially when I say, “God damn it.”  He takes offense.

Which leads me back to the Pope.  What do you all think about this new Pope?  It’s only been a few days.  I’d like to see him admit women to the priesthood, allow priests to marry, quietly disengage all the pedaphiles  such as Cardinal Law from Boston who turned the other cheek to what was going on and is now enscounsed in the Vatican to live his life in luxury.  What’s wrong with that picture?  This is a perfect opportunity to made some radical changes.  So, go for it Pope Francis.

And things do go wrong.  In the guest bath, the vent/heater/fan was installed and worked about a week and then the fan stopped working.  We called.  They sent us a new fan.  Not a new unit, just the fan.  Stevie installed the fan and the heater stopped working.  We called.  They sent out a whole new unit this time.  Problem solved after almost three weeks.  Then the lights we ordered were too big for the area so we took them back and ordered some others.  They still aren’t here.  It’s been 4 weeks probably.  We also ordered the towel warmer.  It’s still not here because it was on backorder so we chose a different style by the same company and have been assured that it will arrive next week.  Seeing is believing.  The new one is bit more modern looking but at this point, we’re just not that choosey.  We just want it.

On the flip side, the woman we worked with at the kitchen and bath store got a manufacturer to make us a special drain cover for our one piece porcelain-covered cast iron floor for our shower (no grout).  And Stevie Wonder sold us two skylights that he removed from the house that he lost in the housing debacle.  One is in the bath.  The other will be installed in the hall.  And these are not ordinary skylights.  They open.  They close.  The have a screen.  They have a shade that covers it if you don’t want any light.  They close automatically if it starts to rain.  They are used but in great shape.  And it makes a huge difference in the bath.  We consider this a good thing.

Now, your confidence starts to wan when one of your friends enters the bathroom and exclaims, “What did you put this wall here for?”.  The thing about the wall is that there are two pony walls that come up to about chest high and the form a semi-private space for the toilette.  We all thought it was a good idea.  Did we screw up?  Quite possibly there is not another bathroom that has anything like this so it does make it unique.  But is it so unique that it is odd?  Remains to be seen.  Depends, I think, on the art we hang on the wall as it does keep the still rather small bathroom open while still providing some privacy for the new fangled toilet seat we bought.

What, you say?  Yes.  Last year when we traveled to Turkey, our apartment came with a toilet that had a squirter directly under the toilet seat.  As you sat, you could turn on the water by turning a valve and “get clean”.  It was really nifty.  So, my blog has now taken a turn toward the vulgarities of bathroom matters.  This toilet seat is very sophisticated and because it is, it comes with a 33 page book on the care and usage of the seat.  About the first 10 pages are warnings.  This seat could possibly electrocute us if not used properly.  It could burn us if we sat on it too long.  You must not crimp any lines, you must check the plug into the wall monthly (really).  Children must be supervised.  Older people may require a bit of supervision too and that includes me.  And it has a remote control for easy usability.  It also can be programmed for water temperature.  You see, it has a wand that comes out and cleans you.  You have choices too.  It can do Rear Cleansing, Soft Rear Cleansing, Front Cleansing.  You can adjust the wand position.  How about the water temperature?  Yep.  That can been selected to be between 86 to 104 degrees.  It also has an oscillating wash and a pulsating wash.  My, oh, my.  Once you have finished your “session”, you can then then dry your wet areas with warm air.  Another amenity is the deodorizer.  It removes odor from the toilet bowel.  The seat gently lowers the seat and the lid and the seat has a sensor that detects when someone sits on the toilet seat and once it knows you are there, it activates all the functions that you then direct with the remote control   And this special seat is self cleaning to a point.  What more could a person want?  I love this seat.  Of course, it has been the butt (pardon the pun) of many jokes this past week…but I don’t care.  I love this seat.  It’s better than a bidet.  I report, you decide.

Once you get past all the warnings, the first thing it tells you to do is to “Sit on the toilet seat.”  2.  Wash.  This section includes two tips for better results.  3. Drying  4.  Standing up from the toilet.  Really.  The next section has a few pages about conserving energy.  You can program the seat to only be on during certain hours.  You can turn it off for vacation.  There is an Auto Energy Saver.  The seat is called a Toto Washlet.  The washlet will store the time periods when the toilet is used, find low use times and automatically lower the toilet seat temperature to save energy.  These Japanese really are all over it, aren’t they.  They seem to have thought of everything on my wishlist.  Yes, they did.  Why it even has a button to push for Want Cleaning whereby the wand comes out but doesn’t squirt water so you can clean it.  OMG.  Have I gone on and on too long?

At dinner with our gourmet dinner club, the subject came up (after we ate).  Rayman thinks reservations may be needed at our next party for the loo.  I don’t know.  I report, you decide.

Our life is full of dust.  White dust.  Dust is everywhere because Stevie Wonder, an alias for our contractor so named because he works fast and can do just about everything.  Oh, I could have called the White Tornado but that is trademarked, I think.

But I digress.

His work has resulted in dust galore and this spurred me to action and that action resulted in searching for a vacuum cleaner hose for our Electrolux Renaissance vintage vacuum cleaner which was given to me by my mom back in the 70s.  It took an hour or more but I finally found a website that sells new stuff for old shit.  So, for $74, we now have a brand new hose which we are now putting to almost daily use picking up  that dreaded dust.

Remodeling, refurbishing, redoing a bathroom includes the opportunity to make so many decisions it will make a head spin.  It’s a bit frightening, really, because if you mess up, you get to live with it forever unless you have unlimited funds to start over, rip out, or demolish which in our case is to live with it forever.  There are cabinets, tile, flooring, towel racks, skylights, higher ceiling, special toilet seat, niches in the shower, niches outside the shower, make-up mirror (lighted), ceiling fans, bank of drawers to choose.  Lighting must be planned.  Where to put the electricity?  The old bath had one electrical plug.  Now we have one for the toilette, one for the lighted mirror, one for the toothbrush and waterpic, one for heated towel rack, one for skylight that opens and closes and has a shade that blocks out the sun and I’m probably forgetting some outlets.  Then there are the overhead lights and it is all fairly amazing.  Our PG&E bill will soar.

We’re getting to the place where color of paint is required, a new door must be ordered, shutters for the window, glass for the shower.  The list just goes on and on.   And what kind of art work must grace the walls of the new bath that has no bath.  That’s right.  We eliminated the tub.  We’re thinking we’ll just get a 2 person hot tub for outside our bedroom door.  And because of that and the doggie, we added a hot water spigot while things were torn up and a new light for the backyard.

All of this results in dust.  If you come over to visit, please don’t mention the dust which we know you will notice.  It’s everywhere, even in my pantry which I keep closed.

None of this has improved anyones’ mood around here.   Exclamations of “look at the dust” pierce the air on a regular basis.  There are more emphatic exclamations but this is a family blog so I’ll refrain repeating Rayman’s exultations.

We have big plans at the end of this process.  It involves hiring dusterbusters.  Some cleaners to do nothing but dust.  We plan to send our bed spreads and drapes to the cleaners.  Rayman envisions an air filter.  With our new hose, we will vacuum the carpets and furniture.  Never thought dusting would be such a “waiting with baited breath” kind of moment.  But it has come to this.

But I digress.

We will have two new bathrooms.

Then we turn our sights on the yard with a definite plan to keep all the doors and windows closed…to keep out the dust.