?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Travel

Posted on October 11, 2005

My remodeling project is about to swallow the rest of my life, which is why I write about something totally unrelated to drywall, plumbing, or the thickness of plywood.

Travel has always been one of my pastimes, having been part of my life forever. My Mother used to boast that I had been across the continental US by plane five times by the time I was two. Today, that’s not such a big deal; but back then it was unusual for a toddler to be roaming the country.

During my lifetime, I’ve been to a dozen or so European countries, several Central American countries, Canada, a number of Caribbean islands, and more that two-thirds of the fifty United States. For someone who’s serious about visiting everywhere, this isn’t much of an accomplishment; at the same time, I believe it ranks me above the average citizen.

I also believe travel, especially outside one’s country of origin, broadens the mind, challenges language skills (or shows a lack of them), prevents ethnocentrism, and stimulates curiosity. I can’t say which of these attributes is most important, because they are all characteristics of someone who wants to push boundaries outward rather than compress them inward.

What I’ve learned through my travel is that people are really the same everywhere. It’s a clichй that’s already been created, but perhaps what makes a clichй is its truth. Wherever I’ve gone, I’ve communicated one way or another via sign language, smiles, a dictionary, or halting phrases. In return, I’ve come away with tender memories of people on the trail who took time to make themselves understood, even when I couldn’t speak their language.

In a way, this brings me back to my remodeling project since plumbers and electricians have their own language; and I’m just learning it. I have to ask what various abbreviations mean in order to give an intelligible answer. I have to stop and measure my bathrooms in inches and give explanations why I want the faucet here and the light switch there.

I never thought if it before, but now I’m willing to wager that every trade, every profession, every contractor speaks a language that also broadens the mind and challenges language skills.

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OJT

Posted on October 10, 2005

There’s book learning and there’s on-the-job (OJT) training. Our remodeling project falls into the latter category; and here are some things I’ve learned in the past week:

When you have the plumber, the electrician, the ceramic tile man, and the drywall man on the job at the same time, each has his own agenda. Each thinks his part is most important too; but the truth is that working together gets the job done.

Case in point: I had decided where I wanted the built-in soap dish in the master shower, but unfortunately it conflicted with the plumbing that had to go in the guest bath. This is because both bathrooms share a vital wall, the one with all the plumbing. The same one where the soap dishes were to go. So something had to give; in this case, it’s the soap dishes, because if this were a game of cards plumbing trumps soap every time.

Another case in point: I had to decide where the electrician would put the boxes for the new lights in each bathroom. This was, in turn, determined by the placement of the mirrors over the respective sinks. Fortunately, I’d purchased the mirrors already, so I knew their height.

But if I hadn’t been organized, this sort of detail would have bogged my project. Delayed my time frame. Frustrated my inner boss.

I’m sure something will come up that wasn’t foreseen, but so far we’re on schedule and my homemade calendar of progress has seven smiley faces and one frowny one.

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White Sox

Posted on October 9, 2005

The Chicago White Sox are resting a couple days while they find out if they play the New York Yankees or the Los Angeles Angels for their league championship. The next series begins this Tuesday, and Earl and I will be there. Not literally at the stadium, but literally in front of out television set, hoping – maybe even praying – for a miracle.

It’s been eighty-eight years since the White Sox won a World Series; and, while the team members are resting, the Chicago media is indulging in the equivalent of a feeding frenzy. It started immediately after the White Sox beat the Red Sox Friday night. By Saturday morning, the front pages of both local papers were screaming of the Sox-cess. I don’t know how they got it all written, printed, and distributed in under twelve hours; but they did.

Since then, any columnist with a regular platform has given his or her opinion about the White Sox. The Sunday paper is full of it, with special poster pull-outs, reprints of previous articles, and new ones added to the heap.

I’m a fair weather sport fan; I’m also a pretty ignorant one too. But every once in a while, when my home team is winning big, I become engaged in the spectacle and root my heart out as much as any long-suffering follower. In those few days, I cram the names of the players, the broad rules of the game, and even some of the more subtle plays into my head. This is one of those times. Go Sox!

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Demo Man

Posted on October 8, 2005

Every night after Mike and Dave — our demolition team — leave, Earl sneaks into the bathrooms to make his contribution to our remodeling effort. As I write this, he is using a crowbar to knock out old ceramic tile off the walls. He’s banging and clanging with great abandon, and I’ve teased him about his new career as a demo man.

“I like to rip and tear,” he says, showing a side of himself I’ve never seen before. Normally, he’s Mr. Neatnik. But this week he’s ripped tile, torn out insulation, pried floor boards, whacked away at drywall, and generally contributed to the dust that’s been raised on this project.

And there is dust everywhere. Our house was built when plaster was the preferred wall material; and, living in the dust this week, I am convinced of the merits of drywall. It goes up easier and it comes down easier. Except that Demo Man might not have had so much opportunity to rip and tear.

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Health Club

Posted on October 7, 2005

Yesterday, Earl and I started showering at the South Shore Racquet Club, since we have no showering facilities in our home at the moment. Afterward, we stopped for donuts at Dale’s, and Earl asked: “How did you like the club?”

Truthfully, it’s just a temporary place to shower.

Granted, there are tennis courts and a swimming pool, a hot tub, tons of equipment, various classes to take, an indoor track, and television sets so that we can exercise without missing a newsbite. And it’s really quite adequate.

But for several years Earl and I belonged to the highest ranking health club in the country. It was more like a country club than a health club, and it had unbelievable amenities.

You could have your car washed and your clothes laundered while you worked out. You could have all the towels you wanted: one to stand on, one to dry off with, one for your hair. They were big and fluffy too. There were three swimming pools, umpteen tennis courts, classes going all day long, a deli for take-out food, two four star restaurants, a daycare center, a spa, a hair salon, a driving range, two indoor tracks, a physical therapy department, and a social calendar.

People who joined the East Bank Club used it for more than a workout. It was their life. They made fast friendships, forged business agreements, and filled their social lives. It was an unusual environment.

And it’s not fair to judge South Shore by these standards. At the same time, as I did my two miles on the track this morning before heading for the showers, I remembered the great times we had at EBC.

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Demo Update

Posted on October 6, 2005

It’s four days now, or – in terms of the pictures on my demolition calendar – it’s three smiley faces and one face sticking out its tongue. Really, things are fine; but our house has plaster walls and taking them down to the studs in two rooms has begun to have an effect that ressembles snow indoors.

Or maybe the Pillsbury® Doughboy exploding. Fine, white dust is everywhere, even where we’re not doing demolition. It seeps through the vents and ducts of the air conditioning and heating system.

It’s something we didn’t think of. So . . . once the demo work is done, I’m now going to have someone come in and clean our ducts before the heating season starts and we create clouds of white plaster dust emitting from the registers. Then I’m having the furnace itself cleaned. And the carpeting. And the upholstered furniture.

To keep the dust away from hard-to-clean places, I’ve begun taking precautions. I’ve lowered the lid on my grand piano, rolled up the area rug in the foyer, and begun closing off rooms by keeping their doors shut.

I don’t know what we could have done to avoid this; and, if it’s the only thing that we didn’t anticipate . . . well, then I see a lot more smiley faces on the horizon.

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Miss Saigon

Posted on October 5, 2005

Last weekend, Earl and I saw “Miss Saigon,” the blockbuster that played its way into the third longest running musical in Broadway history. (For the record, “Cats” is first.) I liked it better than Earl did. But I must admit it’s heavy, somber, a serious retelling of Puccini’sopera “Madame Butterfly.”

As Earl said while we searched for our car in the parking lot after the curtain call, “I want to be entertained, not bombarded with messages.” I see his point. “Miss Saigon” opens in the waning days of American presence in Vietnam, while the second act occurs approximately three years later.

There are many messages: the fall of Hanoi, the departure of the final American aircrafts, the abiding love of Kim for her American soldier, the plight of the children born of American military and Vietnam women, the effort to survive Ho Chi Min’s regime. None of it is particularly light and gay, although some of the music attempts to paint it that way.

I was struck with two comparisons. First, the team that created “Miss Saigon” also created one of my favorite musicals, “Les Miz.” And I could see many similarities in the telling of the story and the mounting of the production. Both have drama, both rely on special effects. Yet, even though “Les Miz” was produced before “Miss Saigon,” it remains the fresher, better piece.

Second, it doesn’t come as a surprise that “Miss Saigon” is making the touring circuit again. The United States and Great Britain, which is where the show originated, are now embroiled in Iraq; and it’s not going particularly well. With this in mind, “Miss Saigon” offers a silent parallel between Vietnam and Iraq, one that may yet play out in reality.

The next act remains to be seen.

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Demolition

Posted on October 4, 2005

We are 36 hours into the mission of remodeling two of our three bathrooms, and so far things have gone well. Really well. Earl and I are still on talking terms.

This week it’s all about demolition. We have a huge, ugly dumpster holding court on our driveway; and, believe me, this is not an attractive addition to the landscaping. It is also a calling card to all our neighbors that we are doing something major inside our home. The township permit taped to our window announces our intentions too, if any neighbor chooses to get close.

We’ve been planning this project since late spring, and now it’s really here. I must say that planning it in the abstract and living it in real time are two different things. The latter is much more stressful, and I keep reminding myself – even though we’re only two days into it – of what the outcome will be and how much we will like it.

That’s how I got through the major sawing, hacking, and crowbaring that occurred today while I attempted to work. As the banging continued, I had to explain to those I spoke with on the telephone that I currently live and work in a construction zone.

One bathroom is totally demolished as of this evening, and this means we are either ahead or right on schedule. The dumpster is beginning to show the results of our work.
I put up a handmade calendar of the next four weeks today, and every day I’m going to draw an illustration of my mood in the given space. Yesterday and today rated one smiley face each. I’m crossing my fingers it remains that way.

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Getting Along

Posted on October 3, 2005

Both Earl and I are only children; it’s one of the many things we have in common. We also share two syllable names, a commitment to being on time, a relentlessness about balancing our checkbooks, a dedication to personal honesty, a love of good food, an interest in having more money than month, and an appreciation of hard work.

All this is good. At the same time, we have our differences. In fact, they are probably more significant than our likenesses, but we choose to disregard them to enjoy living together.

For the record, our differences include political affiliations, attitudes toward conservation, the NRA, George W. Bush, former President Bill Clinton, the war in Iraq, Fox vs. CNN, who should be taxed, and whether the television should blast throughout the house or simply envelop the family room.

It’s always a give and take, a ying and yang. I often feel I’m making the greatest compromise, but then maybe Earl feels the same way. In the end, I say to him that our relationship is democracy in action, because if we can live harmoniously when our similarities are less than our differences, then anybody can learn to do it.

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Shopping

Posted on October 2, 2005

Yesterday, I shopped, as in spent the entire afternoon going from store to store trying on clothing and buying additions to my fall wardrobe. You might not think this is a big deal, but for someone who hasn’t taken an afternoon off to shop in probably five years, it was quite an experience.

Let me preface the details by saying that, in the recent past, I’ve run into one store or another when I was desperate for a costume to wear that evening. I bought on the fly, so to speak. Or, given adequate time, I’ve done the catalogue-shopping thing, dialing in my order and avoiding retail stores altogether.

But today I determined to do what it took firsthand to fill in the blanks of my wardrobe. I’d gone through my closet, made a list of items, and picked the stores where I might be most successful. I remembered to wear clothing that was easy on, easy off to facilitate trying things on in the dressing rooms. I didn’t wear extensive make-up either.

I visited several stores in our local mall; and, as I walked from one to the other, I noticed how the culture of shopping is different from when I was a regular. Cell phones abound, and I heard more than one conversation that went like this: “What do you think about the purple one? Should I get a large or a medium? I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

When I last shopped people were on their own. Color and size were not committee decisions. At the same time, I saw more than one woman, presumably the mother, being relatively calm and patient while her offspring searched for the right item . . . because she was talking on her cell phone. I also saw a couple teenagers equally zoned out, because they were listening to their iPods while their mothers shopped.

Some things hadn’t changed: mostly notably, the number of shoe stores and the jewelry stores in a mall. I’ve always thought they procreated excessively. But the final reminder of why I don’t like to shop came when I parked in Target’s massive parking lot without noticing where my car was. This lack of attention haunted me later, as I roamed from row to row laden with shopping bags of sweatshirts and workout gear searching for my license plate,

I finally found my little Neon, and it will probably be another five years before I venture forth again.

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