I’m admiring the floor tiles right now. Terra cotta, with a hint of blue kind of splashed across. They go nicely with the almond tiles for the shower. (It’ll have two stripes of cobalt blue, to accent. One stripe is a third of the way up the shower wall, and the second is another third of the way up from that.) They’re all in my office, the tiles. Along with the toilet, now dubbed Office Space Toilet. The floor guy could not bring in the hideous backer board from the front porch, or even start on the tile, cuz they had to start from scratch again.

On the dry rot on the bathroom floor.

On re-re-framing the shower. (We do it nice, cuz we do it thrice?)

So here I wait, with the toilet, and the tiles, for the tile guy to come by again.

Auf wienerschnitzel.

No news from contractors since last Thursday. Yeah, you’re thinking, “She’s never going to get that frickin’ bathroom done. Blog about something else, would you?” Sorry, I can’t.

Oh, wait, they did call to say that marmoleum was too expensive and homeowners’ insurance won’t cover. (Thank God they’re footing the cost of some of this. Yes, I’m fond of “African Desert” and “Red Copper,” too, how did you guess?) And that we should go for tile, instead. Oddly, my husband wants tile (cold); I prefer marmoleum (warm). What does this say about us? What does this say, that the contractors magically agree with his choice, not mine? Bastards. They’re in cahoots, I know it.

(Note to WM: Figure out prices yourself, why don’t you? Enough of this male bonding bullshit between my spouse and the contractors. All their conversations go like this: “How you doin’?” “How you doin’?” It’s like having Tony Soprano here, times three or four.)

Now comes a call from Himself, AKA Hockey God:

WD: “So, I just talked with the contractors.”

Me: “I can’t hear you!”

WD: “They got the tests back — there’s asbestos under the bathroom floor.”

Me: “Break out the red and the blue!!! Blah blah blah moves on to glory! Courage will lead us on to vic-to-ree-ee-ee!”

Yes, that’s right. I sing my high school fight song when I’m ignoring someone. Or I can always tune it to the “bladdity blah blah blah” channel, as Roxie suggests.

Check out this great Portland winery, Hip Chicks Do Wine.

After that news, I’ll need them. (Hip Chicks Do Whine? Only sometimes, when the news is rilly bad.) Check out Blue Heron French Cheese Company, too. Delicious brie and nice wines…

Here’s some of that Pacific Northwest Upspeak you hear so much about, that leads to confusion, miscommunication, slurred speech, the urge to drink too much coffee, a fondness for banana slugs, etc.:

When you haven’t had a shower in your house? (Yeah, we have a tub, but no shower? Since something, like, 1986? Or whenever I first started blogging about this? Which was completely a rilly rilly long time ago?) And the contractor guy finally calls to make arrangements for his gun-for-hire plumber to come out? What you do not want to hear is the dude saying, “We’re pretty busy this week though?”? See? I want to, maybe, wash my hair here? Possibly? Not at the gym, or at my girlfriend’s house?

Me: “I HAVE NO SHOWER.” (losing all upspeak)

Him: “Oh, right. Maybe I should call your husband?”

Not us anymore! HA! I say HA to you mushrooms. Bastards. The contractors ripped off the bathroom wall, and while it was plenty wet, all the way into the office, which shares a wall with the bathroom, it is not a disaster. Knock wood. It drenched the carpet pad but somehow did not ruin the carpet? Fantastic. And there were no giant uber-mushrooms growing in the walls.

My imagination was running a little crazy-like, as Junie B. Jones would say, so it was a huge relief. I’d even had some trippin’ anxiety dreams, where everything was squooshy and soaked and Hideous Kinky. But fears were eased so there you go.

We now have the DriEaz Dehumidifier going in the bathroom (it has a tube that runs water out of it and into a drain in the sink. It makes it look like the bathroom is on life support. Which, I guess, it is). The Turbo Dryer Sahara Pro is going in the office, making the carpet lift up, settle down, lift up, settle down. Giving the office, too, the illusion of being in an oxygen tent or something, on life support. Couple more days of drying and we should be good.

Someday I will have a shower again. (The baths have been relaxing though. We do have a tub in our other bathroom. But I’m not much of a long bath type girl. I’m more a jumpy shower girl.) Then I’ll be able to wash my hair at home and not have to go to the neighborhood salon: “We use nasty chemicals here, so don’t let your preschoolers run around. Clients only, okay?” (That’s what the sign up front says.)

Do you ever wonder where my kids are when I blog? Usually here in the office, with me. But they can’t come back here cuz of the Turbo Dryer, so they’re banging on the door. “Come. Out. NOW!!! MOMMY!!!!!!” Gotta motor. One of ’em is screaming now.

Hello, hello from Wacky House. I would like to thank my sexy smart husband for redesigning my blog. So sweet, so pretty, so unlike me and my surly self. Hope you enjoy it. We’re having a sunshine day here in Portland, can you dig it?

It’s supposed to be nice all week. About time. And the mushroom-infested bathroom at Wacky House? Did I already mention this? We have curly-edged yellowish mushrooms sprouting out from between the shower stall and the wall, creeping up and out from where the wall meets the floor. Nice. Water has been leaking inside the stall, apparently. No, you probably shouldn’t eat the mushrooms, they’re “isgusting,” as one of my friend’s kids says. Good news is that homeowners’ insurance is covering some of it. Bad news is we can’t use the shower and who knows when it’ll be fixed. This month? I hope. We do have a tub in the other bathroom so that’s cool. Creepage, seepage, too much water! So the sunshine, and the contractors, are a sight for sore eyes. And our neighbors are giving us shower privileges, which we do appreciate. Thank you, Wacky Neighbors! My clean hair thanks you. I cleaned their bathroom for them, in return. Give and take/take and give is a beautiful thing. Wouldn’t it be nice if the taxpayers of Oregon agreed? They do not.

PTA? Our school auction is coming up. I’ll write a list of fundraising tips (later) for your perusal. Cuz all we do here in Oregon “Taxes? We don’t pay no stinkin’ taxes!” State is fundraise, me and the rest of the Wacky Parents. It’s a pain in the ass and takes a ton of time and really? It’s not enough, no matter how much we kick ass at it. And really? I think we should all help pay for the schools. It all adds up, everyone contributing their part. I mean, isn’t that part of the beauty of America? A free education, especially for those who can’t afford to pay for it? Give us your poor, your tired, your stressed-out bitchy PTA moms who are sick of no school supplies, no decent salaries for teachers, no art, no music, no electives in the schools, unless the PTA and the principal have gone through hassle after hassle, fundraised til their neighbors and family members go running for shelter whenever they get hit up, again, applied for grant after grant and then voila! Two sessions of art, kids! Go for it! Only, there’s not room for all of you. Yeah, only a third of you. Sorry, again! Better luck next time.

We have no sales tax here, no decent property tax base. But we’re “cool,” we’re like, all free and independent and each and every one of us came out here on the Goddamn Oregon Trail and pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps and didn’t take help. And won’t give it. See what I mean? I’m surly. And bummed out.

Contractors almost finished — they just have a railing to put up on the porch and are done.

Have been researching fibroids, ie — calling all my Wacky Girlfriends and saying “WTF?” and looking at scary pictures on the Internet.

Sometimes fibroids get as big as potatoes, sometimes as big as melons. Sometimes you have to have your uterus removed, along with Alien Growth, sometimes you stop growing them when you hit menopause, sometimes they just stay small and “hang out in there,” as one Wacky Girlfriend put it. Yeesh.

I need to go bake cookies now. Too depressed about this. Here’s a recipe:

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Scaffolding — gone.

Big drop box on street that has been vexing garbagemen and neighbors — gone.

Honey Bucket — still here.

Front steps — almost finished.

Contractor — no sign of him.

i swear, i cannot even freaking focus and thus will be unable to blog until the contractors leave. The only comfort I have is the photo gallery of Beauty Queen Rockstarmommy and her adorable tattooed family. Sigh. What a cool girl. I cannot post pictures of my own adorable family as I cannot figure out how to work my digital camera. Ha! You think I jest! I do not.

Rockstarmommy looks quite a bit like the Old Carly on “General Hospital” who just honestly is one of the prettiest girls in the universe, IMHO. (No, I don’t mean New Drag Queen Female Impersonator Carly, having a nervous breakdown and kinda freaking me out, and not Old Old Carly — Tamara Braun I mean. Oh, Tamara Braun, why did you blow GH?)

Yes, they’re still here, the contractors, along with the Honey Bucket they rode in on. They love it here. Well, we’re down to two of ’em now. (Contractors, not Honey Buckets.) There is only one here, most days. My kids, per usual, refuse to listen to me, but they’ll listen to the contractors. How pathetic is that?

“Get away from that window now. You’ll break it. Move back. Good job, little guy!” No I am not kidding. (Single-paned glass, adventuresome three-year-old.)

Also, I’m so confused that I cannot FUCKING REMEMBER WHERE I PARKED MY CAR. Ever. And the contractors have to point me in the right direction, for example…

“It’s in the driveway.”

Today I locked myself out of the house, and he tells me, “No, I left the side door open, you’re good!” But I was not good, cuz I’d locked it up after him. Also, the mailman has developed a bit of jealousy, as he saw me bringing the contractors lemonade one day and, “You never bring me lemonade! Not even when it’s hot as hell out here!”

Like, one husband wasn’t enough trouble for me? Now I’ve got, what, four or five? Between the mailman, Hockey God and assorted contractors?

Off to watch “Lost” in bed and fantasize about Sawyer… Would my kids listen to him? Yeah, probably. But I need not worry about that — we’d be on our own Fantasy Island, sans husband(s), sans kids, sans large neurotic dog who eats everything on the counter, including cubes of butter, every time I turn my back.

Ta-ta for now,

WM

It’s not cancer. And the contractors are still here. And it’s started to rain, and the front end of our house is exposed to the elements and how are they supposed to paint the rest of the house, when it’s raining? WTF??? And…This post is not for the weak of heart.

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Is the Honey Bucket still here? Yes. Is our neighbor down the street, who actually knows how to do his own remodeling, jealous? Yes. For the love of God, he has saved himself and his lovely wife tens of thousands of dollars by working on his own place and not hiring contractors — it looks great, their house, total showcase now — and he loves the damn Honey Bucket.

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