Under1Roof

Orgy at the Retirement Condo (Something’s Fishy)

Guest Blog from Bea

I made my bones as a Condo Commando when I agreed to serve as association secretary. Strange, when you consider that I spent the greater part of my 77 years trying to avoid petty politics. Yet, here I was knee-deep in squabbles—did the lady in Apt. 12 leave her laundry in the dryer? Was Mr. So & So a lecher? And who was using an authorized dumpster?! United Nations stuff, for sure. In life, there’s always a defining moment, and mine arrived at a delegates’ meeting. We were discussing the “no-pets” policy when a elderly lady (obviously suffering from Condo-it is), complained loudly about her neighbor, who had violated the “no pet” ordinance by having a goldfish.

It’s no wonder she protested. The all-night orgies of splashing, bubbling, and God alone knows what that went on inside the tiny fishbowl. I sat there, not knowing whether to laugh or club her like a baby seal!

When my daughter asked me to occupy the carriage house, it seemed my salvation was at hand. Diane, Ray, Bianca and whatever feathered or four-legged creatures they owned would move into the main house, while Stefan and I would share the little cottage in back. Diane, eloquent as always, painted a charming picture of happy family get-togethers on the not-yet built patio. 

I rented my condo and packed up. The cottage wasn’t “quite” ready, so I moved into Diane’s house, bringing with me just a few articles of clothing until the BIG MOVE.

Buying an old house is kinda like buying a used car. What you see ain’t necessarily what you get. Almost immediately, problems began to crop up, and my moving date kept getting pushed back. Time passed – and passed – and passed.  Since most of my belongings are stored in boxes at the cottage, I’ve been forced to wear the same few items of clothing I brought to Diane’s house many months ago. But there are benefits, primarily my distance from the condo and the militant old fogies who reside there.

I’ll miss those wild goldfish orgies, but you can’t have everything. At the end of the day, it’s a true ying-yang situation. As I face each cold snap in shorts and lightweight tops, my winter garb molders in boxes at the cottage. Yet, my optimism prevails as I contemplate THE BIG MOVE that dangles before my eyes, but seems forever beyond my reach.

REDRUM REDROOM

Since we bought the house, I’ve been trying, with all the fervor I could possibly muster, to convince my mom to let me paint my room red.

For those of you who do not know my mom, she likes to think her sense of style is much better than anyone else on the planet (no offense, mom). So naturally, MY opinion about MY room was completely unimportant. But I don’t give up so easily; I pestered her about the room for many months… to no avail. But noooooo, Mom knows best.

Thankfully, my perseverance paid off (but, of course, not with my stubborn ol’ mother).

In the weeks just before Christmas, Ray showed me pictures of my freshly painted RED ROOM! I thought hell had just frozen over. Ray just went ahead and did it for me!

P.S. Hopefully, I’ll get into the flow of things and will someday write like the brilliantly funny Julie Powell… sans foul language. A girl can dream, right? Oh, and that picture of me is outdated. Circa 2006. (if I’m lucky, this will convince my mom to allow a picture change!)

THE BIG BASTARD

The more endeavors on this house that I take on, the screaming significance of acquiring the skills and know-how (in a big hurry) rings in my ears, ever more loudly. Not loud enough to drown out the inevitable roaring wails that will follow that “straw that broke the camel’s back” stroke of the hammer, however. I’m a hardhead, and though I now bear the numerous blood blisters beneath the same damned thumbnail to bring evidence to the proof of the pudding that threatens to become my thumb, I still, for some reason, seem to generally insist on using a three lb. hammer instead of a regular one. I must have five damned hammers besides that big bastard, but I still use THAT ONE. Now, usually, in more FINESSE jobs, I wield those things with reasonable aplomb and success, but recently had cause to do some roof repair, and was duly and reluctantly climbing the ladder to do so, knowing full well that I should go get the REGULAR hammer, but NOOOOOOO, I had to take the BIG BASTARD.

 I knew I was going to look like Popeye before it was over…AT THE OUTSET…I KNEW there was hammering a’plenty to do…oh yesssssssssss.

 Those little roofing nails aren’t very long. Not much of a shaft to grab hold of to put it where you want it, to ready that thing for smashing with your HAMMER. My BIG hammer. Regardless of the scattered incidents where I nailed my thumb with that hammer, did I get down in a huff and go get a regular hammer? What do YOU think??!?!?!

 Thousands of those little bastards had to be driven in. I’d be going along pretty good, thinking “Oh, yeah..got the hang of it now! I’m just about approaching professio…!!???#&#^#$&)*(@)(&$#&$.   !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Well, most of the time I try to avoid screaming profanity at the top of my lungs to the general public, and those of you that have seen me do it under different circumstances…stay out of my blog. Here I was, on the proverbial ROOFTOP, tears welling up in my eyes, choking back the gurgling screams. I was doing all right. Well, sort of. I hadn’t managed to avoid smashing my thumb numerous times, but I was doing all right regarding public braying and screaming like a wounded animal…so…there ya go. Carry on, my son.

 I was down to the last two or three feet of my mammoth endeavor, close to success…close to victory, with only minor wounds to show for it, and seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

 It was approaching dusk, and I wanted to meet my estimated completion time/date…didn’t really have to..I’m just that way. Kinda picked up the pace a little….

 WHAM. I saw stars. I tasted this weird metallic taste in my mouth. I thought I was gonna pass out and fall off the damn roof. Missed. *@%^$*()&^(*&^^&*!!!!!!!

 I picked up my Massive Hammer Of Mortal Wounds, regrouped in an ever-so-manly fashion, and smashed my thumb again. &&%^%#$*&^(*&)(*_)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!    !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 After my screams died in my throat, and I could see and breath in a nearly normal fashion, I actually laughed a macabre, dark, and half-insane little chuckle…laughing at my silliness at my own ineptitude, and picked up a fresh nail (like the other one had been cursed, or an embodiment of him that shall not be named, or something), and reared back to drive it home, and get on with it.

WHAM. Oh, Jesus. That hurt. Tears filled my eyes. My head went down, gurgling in my own death rattle that threatened to come up from my collapsed lungs, collapsed organs, and instantaneously crumbled bones. I had no more skeleton..I was rubber, and limp with pain. I looked at my thumb. It was, somewhere down there, showing signs of abuse.

 I regrouped myself after a few moments, and grasped a nail, gasping in irregular breaths, and smashed it again. GOD!!! This time my head went directly to the roof, and I cried like a little girl, for a good four or five minutes. Cried in pain. Cried for my thumb. Cried for my pathetic ineptitude, and went back to crying in pain. I was feeling sick to my stomach, now…but still determined.

WHAM.

 I screamed that long, sharp cry of the hopelessly lost, the doomed, and screamed out that Great Mother Of All Curse Words for four square city blocks to hear, I figure. I screamed it repeatedly, too. I stomped around the roof like an Indian going to war, cursing loudly instead of “hey-yah”ing. I was PISSED. I threw that hammer down..HARD.

 After about ten minutes I picked the hammer up again and smashed my thumb once again, threw the hammer off the roof, and climbed down at great risk to body and soul since I could only use one hand.

 I could only use one hand for about a week. I eventually recovered, manned-up, and went up there to finish the job without incident. (big hammer).

Use the right tool for the job. Do as I say, not as I do. Go get it. Don’t be a hardhead. And take your time..be careful. You never know who might be listening.

ROCK AND ROLL & THE PURITAN WORK ETHIC

I still haven’t really figured out how my dear old dad succeeded in planting the strong and healthy seed of the Puritan Work Ethic in me, but against all my fierce countermanding and determined rejections of the very concept itself, he did it, and it has stuck with me, to my enduring wonderment.

I believed I had a much better idea than (snarf, snort) “working”…I’d be a rich, world-traveling rockstar, rich beyond his wildest dreams, and buy my parents a house, not only paying him back for all the gear he let me weasel out of him, but relieving him of all anxieties he and my mother may be facing in their elder years. I’d save the day, and show him who had the better plan. I ended up, with my bandmates, working twice as hard as most people ever do, holding down crappy day jobs, and working almost every night, as well. We were zombies at 30. The Old Man came in one night, and finally gave me his seal of approval and appreciation for my/our efforts by telling me he SAW how hard we were working to achieve our dreams, respected that, saw how much we wanted it, and how much our fans were behind us..he even thought we were good…and might even stand a chance. I was stunned as I held back my tears, and by how much that meant to me, coz we’d gone around and around like nobody’s business over that course of action, in a battle of wills that took me here, and him there, but at peace with each other, at last. I never did get to save the day for them, and now he’s gone, but I know he knows.

But back to that sense of obligation, responsibility, and the Puritan Work Ethic: still got it, and it reminds me of him every time I catch myself being so completely a jerk about doing it the best I can, being on time, etc. etc. To tell the truth, THIS blog entry, the first to be found here, is actually the second that I have written, and in taking gleeful advantage of the wonders of technology of today, I have decided to put THIS one HERE, and the OTHER one, SECOND. ‘Cause I CAN.

I actually wrote the other one first, then sent it around to friends to see what the overall reaction was, and I got back all kinds of things, most of them good, bonafide suggestions, lots of suggestions to get the right tool, but mainly compositional suggestions…structure..that sort of thing.

The Old Man, in a sense of concern for my ultimate future, and as a “safety net” against the POSSIBLE FAILURE that loomed as at least a POSSIBILITY, of me becoming as impossibly wealthy as say, Paul McCartney, talked me into going to the University (and also sidestepping the Vietnam War Draft, as well….temporarily) as a sort of stop-gap measure, where, due to high scores on my entrance exams, I was nudged towards English majors, and related studies. As I couldn’t even remotely entertain the visual of me as a professor in a suede-elbow-patch cord coat with a pipe, I figured I’d go along a little (good for my songwriting, presumably), but lean more towards Psychology, which at least coincided a bit with my auxiliary, off-campus “mind research” . That’s another story entirely, ahem.

My agonizingly protracted point here, actually, is that through high school and college, I qualified for and endured honors courses and advanced studies in English, and I had a certain aptitude for it, I admit. I submitted papers, both good and bad, had them analyzed, critiqued, and ripped asunder, and ground my teeth down over some idiot teacher’s blunt appraisal of my work and its merits or lack thereof…(yeah, I know you’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition)..I really DO know how to do this pretty well, I promise.

BUT—

This is my Declaration of Independence: that i shall no longer suffer the chains and pains of criticism of the old days, nor what I deem fit to offer up here in This Blog! I declare myself OLD! I declare myself FREE of the motivation to read it over again, correct it, IMPROVE it, or entertain if there might have been a better way to say it! I declare myself Old and Grumpy enough to possibly react badly if you offer these things up! I CAN and WILL write whatever here, hope to entertain you and myself, possibly throw a bone here and there of actual WORTH, and walk away from it unfettered and probably unencumbered of the very memory of it, far faster than probably healthy! What you can expect here is, well, I will just let it fly.

 Oh, well.

Where’s that damned hammer?

THE BUZZ – BEES IN THE WALL

While I don’t expect to create a Julie-Julia craze on my humble little blog, sending a personal message into oblivion by means of the Internet does have some rather unexpected benefits.

For one, I get my own little piece of real estate where I can say just about anything that comes to mind. If someone finds their way here and decides to read it, that’s a bonus.

But getting back to our renovation…  For me, the last few months have passed at a snail’s pace. I’ve had to face my demons… own up to the fact that I’m not a naturally gifted carpenter, gardener or renovator. I do though try to make myself useful whenever possible. When all else fails, I do a mean lunch run!

As for Ray, he has made great strides. He has learned new skills and is slowly but surely making the hovel livable.  Of course, there have been setbacks. When he jackhammered the prison yard that previously passed for our backyard, he inadvertently knocked the sunroom off its cement foundation. That has since been fixed. Of course, the back steps should NEVER, EVER have been part of the foundation to begin with, but the previous owner, a hardware store owner with few discernable handyman skills, did many such things. Oftentimes, Ray can be observed mumbling and cursing under his breath at the mere thought of the old man and his sloppy workmanship.

Case in point: my recent cottage kitchen repainting. My paintbrush rolled over a sizeable bubble in an otherwise smooth wall. Based on past experience, this immediately set off a red flag. Since the old man had used water-based paint over the top of oil-based paint throughout the main house (a total “no no”), most of the interior walls resembled a sunburned, peeling tourist.

I envisioned another four-weeks of hand-scraping all of the paint off the walls again, when suddenly, the bubble pulled away to reveal a water bill. Apparently, some time before, perhaps when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, he had taped it there as a reminder. When it came time to repaint the cottage kitchen, he didn’t bother to remove it and just painted over it. There’s been a lot of that sort of thing over the course of the last few months.

And no sooner did we get the paint scraped and resurfaced in the main house, did we discover that twenty thousand honeybees had taken up residence behind the living room wall. Since neither Ray nor I are big on killing defenseless creatures, including the endangered honeybee, we hired a beekeeper to relocate the entire hive.

Ray got into a beekeeper suit and videotaped the whole thing, so we WILL be uploading a blow-by-blow demonstration of the process very soon.

As for me, I stood cowering behind closed French doors watching the spectacle. Of course, I couldn’t help but wonder as I watched Ray peering through a netted hat that resembled one of those oversized bonnets that church ladies wear, if three years ago, while hunkered down in his bachelor pad in Atlanta, he ever imagined his life taking such a bizarre turn. I think not.

Our beekeeper and his assistant placed the bees into a temporary holder and left several huge gaping holes in our newly refinished living room wall. They gave us a comb to take home and we have been enjoying the most delicious honey we’ve ever tasted for weeks now. But given the two-hundred-and-forty-five dollar price tag for the bee removal, it’s also the most expensive jar of honey in the history of mankind! But considering that exterminators charge more than double for their services, we got off cheap and did our part to preserve the planet.

When we first embarked on this journey, Ray and I had discussed adding landscaping that would attract honeybees. We’ve since changed our minds. If any of you are daring enough to try your hand at attracting your very own honeybee colony, details can be found right here on the website.

As we left that day, a strange thought sprang to mind. Where did the name “bumblebee tuna” originate? I never did see the connection, myself. Anyway, that’s my buzz for now.

THE UNA-POOPER STRIKES AGAIN

The last two days, I’ve been feeling a bit frenzied as evidenced by the Don King hairstyle I’ve been sporting of late. I came flying, racehorse-style, into my day on Friday, but unlike Seabiscuit, the finish line was nowhere in sight. By 10:30, I felt more like Frances the Talking Mule as I sat muttering at my computer screen trying to figure out how to fit 24-hours work into a 12-hour day. As luck would have it, though, my mule period was short-lived, because much to my chagrin, the Una-Pooper had struck again! For those of you who aren’t able to connect the dots here, the Una-Pooper is the unidentified defecator who has decided to make our property his personal powder room.  Ray says he’s got a hunch that the malefactor is the homeless guy who bums money at the intersection around the corner. You see, our house is just far enough down the alley to hide his nefarious activities, but a hopannaskip from the fortunes that wait from passing motorists. When his leavings were first discovered, I ran gagging from the scene as Ray, always the Get-‘Er-Done-Guy, posted crime scene tape and notes which threatened the culprit with a bullet in his arse for further atrocities. Thanks go out to my dear friend Tomey who had the brilliant idea of sketching out a body, face down, near the area in question with the sidewalk chalk we bought for Ray’s daughter.

Having lived almost exclusively in the suburbs, homeless guys are not something to which I’m accustomed to dealing. You hafta take the good with the bad, though, right? We’re a mile from the beach and five blocks from the hub of bars, restaurants and shops of Lake Worth. You can’t have everything, so I’ll just have to get used to it. After assessing the damage behind our house, I raced into the office to finish up an edit for an AID’s charity. As usual though, I was a day late and a penny short, ‘causing me to nearly hyperventilate. Three hours later, I was caught up and had just enough time left over to head over to my favorite hang-out…the local Habitat for Humanity Restore. This time, I went by the Boca location and left with a carload of wood flooring that was offered at a fire sale price. Bargain shopping is MY Zen place. There’s nothing in this world that’ll light me up quicker than a sign reading “below wholesale prices.”

I arrived at the house with my handy little scraper in tow, and started patching walls and removing layers of paint. Since there wasn’t any air conditioning and there won’t be until the electricians clear out next month, I was quickly turned into a sweat monkey. Finally, at 8:00, Ray and I decided to call it a night and head to our other home. Within minutes I fell asleep watching television and awoke with a start at 5 a.m. wondering what I had forgotten to do the day before. I brewed some strong coffee and headed to the computer. I got busy writing content for the new website (including my first blog…namely this), and doing a little tweaking on the home page design on Photoshop. Between keystrokes, I threw a chicken on to boil for an afternoon going away party for Ray’s friend entertainment attorney Geoff Robinson who will be joining the millions of South Floridians who have fled the area in hot pursuit of greener pastures. I’ll be armed and dangerous with my dill chicken salad.

So there you have it — my world — cooking, writing, video editing, website design, crime scene tape, Una-Poopers and Don King hairdo’s. Since Ray has a gig tonight with his band, I’ll be able to end the day with a nice glass of Chardonnay. It’s truly a Habitat for Insanity around here lately, but it’s my world and I wouldn’t have it any other way.