Okay, so the house is safely decorated! Such as it is.
But, first things first; my freezer is packed. Solid. And I have to take damn near everything out of it to get the buried pound of hamburger or bacon out. Plus, I have to freeze what’s left of the two gallons of gravy so I can use them later when we can all look at a turkey without gagging. Not sure how long that’s going to take……
Decorating. This house is smaller than the last house we had. Consequently, we had to get rid of a lot of furniture - furniture that I used for Christmas decorations. So here’s what we have: the dining/Karaoke room looks good. The tree is up, although it’s a lot smaller than I remember it being, the bar is all sparkly - except for the string of beads. Yes, they defeated Randy. After multiple attempts to put them up there, the beads won. Or gravity won, take your pick. While he was fighting with them, DaBoy and I prudently left the vicinity. And I meant that literally; we went outside. After an hour of watching Randy through the window get alllllllmost the whole string done, then watching it cascading down in a gold stream to bury his shoes (countless times), we were not surprised when, instead of trying it again, he wound up the string and set it ungently down on the top of the bar.
So the bar is nekkie.
The kitchen, where the hutch is, has exactly two Chrismasy hot pads and one hand towel that we had to attach to the oven handle with a twist tie. The hutch has it’s normal decorations in it, but no lightbulb. It’s purty during the daytime, though.
The entry hall has a few Christmasy items in it, including a sleigh I bought at a garage sale and stuck a big, stuffed snowman into. He’s holding a broom that Elwood has decided is perfect for feline dental floss. The sleigh is about three feet long, counting the runners, and sticks out just far enough that we keep tripping over it. At some point, I suspect one of us is going to trip on it, sending it crashing through the sidelight window next to the front door. However, until that happens, it looks cute.
The living room does not look cute. That’s where the abused gold beads are, the garland that has to be kept away from the cat, the stockings for which we haven’t bought holders yet, and the various and sundry Christmas decorations that don’t really have a place to go anymore. Except for my Kincaid Christmas Village; it’s staying in lawn bags in the basement. No place to set it up.
Basically, it looks like Santa threw up all over the house. Like Elwood. The saving grace here is that nobody except one of Randy’s sisters is even going to see it, and she’s too polite to ask about the Santapuke effect.
It wouldn’t be quite so bad if I could set up my Village, but it’s too big. And the reason it’s too big is because I don’t read the fine print. One year, I got an ad in the mail for the Kincaid Christmas Village. It showed four houses, all colonial, and they have Christmas lights on them that really light up, and windows that light up and they were WAY too cute to pass up. So I talked Randy into it and even had a spot all picked out for them when Christmas time came.
The four houses came one by one as they were manufactured. We set them up for Christmas like we’d planned, and the whole thing looked just awesome. One of the houses came with a little sleigh, another came with a set of battery operated streetlights, I had a white tablecloth and my iridescent white beads for a snow effect. It was totally perfect.
Except.
Two days before Christmas, a package showed up on our doorstep. It was a FIFTH piece to the Village, one that I hadn’t seen in the ad. It looked a lot like our house at the time, so we kept it, but after the holdays, when the sixth surprise piece showed up, I called the manufacturer.
I said, “Umm, hi, I was just wondering if you could tell me how many pieces are in this Kincaid Village?”
“Currently?” the woman asked.
“What do you mean, ‘currently’?” I demanded. “Are they still making them?”
“Oh, yes,” she responded happily. “You’ll be getting a new one about once a month.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I hadn’t planned on joining a club or anything and they’re kind of expensive; how many of these things are there?”
“Well, keeping in mind that they’re still making them, there are 65 pieces to the Village so far,” she chirped.
“SIXTY-FIVE??” I shrieked. “What on earth am I going to do with 65 large pieces to the village? And how big is this village supposed to be, anyway?”
“Well, ma’am, you have to keep in mind that it’s a Kincaid village,” she informed me as though I’m a little slow. “Each piece is numbered and registered. They’ll be worth a fortune someday. Not to mention how wonderful a complete set would be!”
Glory be. A complete set, that they’re still adding to. I’d need a whole ‘nother house just to set it up. I think I had about eleven pieces before I had to beg for mercy and cancel my “subscription” that I hadn’t even intended to start. The woman I talked to when I called to stop them had the attitude that I was going to regret it for the rest of my life and my child’s life, but good gods, I think the final planned number of pieces was about 225 or something. I mean, seriously, who has that kind of space? I’d need to buy a warehouse and charge admission.
Which might work, now that I stop to think about it, but…..lost opportunities and that kind of thing.
It’s the holidays! Time for the usual Mitchnesses to happen that poor Randy has to deal with, and poor DaBoy has to question his genetic makeup.
This year, for Thanksgiving, I decided to order a fresh turkey. Because this house came with a kitchen that was designed by Playskool, the freezer won’t hold anything much larger than a cornish game hen. Especially if there’s anything else in it.
I make Thanksgiving dinner every year no matter what the rest of the family is doing. Not because I’m such a traditionalist or anything, but because I want the LEFTOVERS. This year, it’s going to be just Randy and I since nobody in the family is willing to drive for two hours in five inches of snow we weren’t supposed to get. Well, and they all had plans, but that’s beside the point.
But until we moved out of state, most of the family came over and I always planned accordingly: enough to feed everyone with plenty left over to share and even some to freeze. This time last year, Randy was living in Cedar Rapids in a hotel room that had a little kitchenette in it. I spent the following week with him, so we took our leftovers with us. And then had to go to the store to buy the fixings for the turkey sandwiches and little microwavable bowls.
I digress. Anyway, so I can’t just go buy a turkey because of my lack of freezer space. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson (shut up, father in law) with the salmon, but if you fall off of a horse you have to get behind the wheel again, or something. So I went to see the butcher at the grocery store and placed an order for a fresh turkey. The butcher says, “sure, we can do that. What size and brand?”
Without hesitation, I respond, “20 lb Butterball.” Randy, standing just too far away to intervene but close enough to hear, turned a sickly shade of green. After I finished with the butcher, I asked if he was okay.
“20 POUNDS??” He demanded.
“Wool, yeah,” I said defensively. “How else are we going to feed……..umm………..”
“The two of us?” He finished, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Well…..”
“Exactly. We’ll be eating turkey for YEARS,” he stated.
“Well…..okay, that’s true, but, honey. Leftovers!”
He just threw his hands up in the air and walked away shaking his head and making what I’m sure were fascinating observations about me to DaBoy.
Today, the day before Thanksgiving, is traditionally baking day. I don’t bake cookies or pies - not since the Pecan Taffy Pie fiasco - but I do a kind of bastardized version of Chex Mix every year and this year is no exception. Up to and including the amount. Yup, two full batches, with only Randy and I to eat it. Randy doesn’t even really care all that much about it and DaBoy won’t be home until Sunday.
Sunday, we plan to decorate the house for Christmas as soon as DaBoy gets home. We do this every year, too; drag out all the boxes of ornaments and decorations, open a tin of butter cookies, pour egg nog, turn on Christmas music and argue with DaBoy about why he has to help instead of playing video games. And yet, he has insisted that we wait for him because he won’t be here on Black Friday when we normally do it. Go figure.
Anyway, one year I picked up about four strands of beads. They’re about, oh, I don’t know. Maybe 100 feet long. I wanted to wind them around the stair banister but couldn’t settle on a color. So I got red, green, iridescent white and gold. We strung the banister with the red and green ones after twisting them together. Somehow, that just never turns out the way you expect it to. The white beads I used as “snow” for my Kinkaid Christmas Village, and the gold……the gold strand, we put on the bar. The bar came in two pieces; one with cabinets, drawers, glass hangers, bottle holders and a top for the liquor. The second piece is a set of four shelves that sits on top of the bottom piece.
I thought (and I was right) that the gold beads would look good entwined around the decorations on the bar shelves and down around the liquor decanters. There is just one thing; they are extremely susceptible to gravity. And being round, the beads roll freely on the string, which means that the wrong touch can send the entire strand cascading loudly down onto the floor to puddle around your feet. If you’re lucky, the cascade of god only knows how many beads will not take anything extra with them. Usually, we’re not lucky.
It is, however, hysterically funny when someone other than you does it. Because it’s so LOUD, you see. And those strands are about 100 feet long, and when they’re slowly, loudly cascading off the bar, each bead hitting every single object in it’s path before finally crashing to the floor in a long crackle of sound that drowns out every other sound in existence, all you can do is stand there and watch it happen. Oh, you can TRY to grab them, but it never works. Usually you end up knocking something over instead.
So one of Randy’s aunts brought her sister over for Christmas Eve one year, and that poor woman knocked the beads off the bar not once, but TWICE. She didn’t really know us well at all and she was just mortified. It is SO the kind of thing that would happen to me…..well, it has happened to me, several times in fact, but it’s my house and my bar so it doesn’t count - and I felt so sorry for her, but couldn’t stop laughing.
This year, we will be putting up the fake tree for the first time in about six years. You know the kind; it’s six feet tall, about four feet wide and comes packed in a shoe box. Elwood has never seen it before, so lord only knows what kinds of things will happen.
Well, whatever happens, it’ll be memorable! It always is.
So, we decide to have this electrician come out and change us over from fuses to circuits. Now, Randy has friends that could do that job, but being the grand-daughter of an electrician, I know not to screw around with electricity. I insist that we hire a licensed company. We even checked them out on the BBB site to make sure they have a satisfactory rating.
The guy rolls in around 11:00 AM. By this time, we’ve been expecting him for about three hours, and the first thing he does is park in our next door neighbor’s driveway. Now, keep in mind, he’s BEEN HERE ALREADY once before. He always brings his wife with him on jobs, and she spends the day sitting in the truck, which I think is just ODD. The second thing, the wife gets into a shouting match with one of our next door neighbors, who takes exception to not being able to get her car out to go to work.
He leashes his wife, reparks the truck, and puts down a sheet of plywood he carries with him to park over, since his truck leaks.
At one point, I go outside, and see our meter hanging - yes, hanging - off the back of the house, being held on only by the wires. Which he has connected one cord to with alligator clamps, or some damned thing.
I decide I don’t want to know any more about it, and go back in the house.
Shortly afterward, it begins to thunder. I go downstairs to tell them that it’s getting ready to storm, so the guy decides to rush. He starts plugging things back in, and I notice that the stove has power, but the microwave does not even though they’re in the same outlet. I go back down to ask about that, and Randy tells me that we’ve hit a snag.
I ask what happened, and it seems that the meter-reader came by to check the meter, (doesn’t THAT figure) notices (surprise) that it’s hanging off the back of the house, and also that where he’s connected to the power line is OUTSIDE the meter. He’s running his lights and tools straight from the pole. Which, of course, is STEALING. She calls her boss, who promptly jumps into his car, and rushes over here to engage Randy in a very heated debate regarding the subject of……..wait for it………..PERMITS. And the INSPECTOR that will now be paying us a visit. Then he reattaches the meter, and applies a padlock to it.
At this point in the conversation, I turn to the electrician, and say, “We need permits for this?”
Electrician: Well, yes and no.
Me: What do you mean, yes and no?? Do we or don’t we?
Him: See, for a job this size -
Me: (waving my hands in the air to stop him) Aren’t you the one who was supposed to GET the permits if we needed any?
Him: We do this all the time. It’s okay, normally.
Me: Well, obviously, it’s NOT okay, since OPPD has a problem with it. Is this illegal?
Him: Well, it’s legal, and illegal, but -
Me: (throwing my hands in the air) I’m going back upstairs.
I storm upstairs, and he explains to Randy that the only time a permit would have mattered would be when we SELL THE HOUSE, and then, only IF someone HAPPENS to notice that the place is supposed to be on fuses and isn’t. If he hadn’t gotten caught, that is. He keeps reiterating that they do it all the time, like that somehow makes it acceptable. Axe murderers kill people all the time, too.
Then he asks Randy if the neighbors might have reported us. Then he asks if I’m okay, and Randy feels compelled to explain, “my wife is brutally honest, and things like this really bother her.”
Now his boss shows up with the application for a permit. And a bill for $170.00 for it. He finds all of this ruefully amusing. Tells Randy that they normally don’t bother with permits, but gosh-golly-gee, sometimes, they just get caught, aw shucks.
It’s a very good thing I wasn’t out there for that.
As it is, the electrician couldn’t finish the job, in spite of the $400.00 we paid up front. He didn’t have all the parts he needs. So, he was supposed to come back tomorrow. However, he called tonight, and very clearly did NOT want to speak to me. Tough noogies. He says that his water pump in his truck finally let go, and he now can’t make it here until Saturday to install the three circuits for Randy’s shop. I say, “Do we need permits for those?” and am deafened by the pause before he says no. Randy thinks that on Saturday, it might be best if I just avoid the basement entirely until he finishes the job and gets out of here safely.
This is the second electrician in a row that I have gotten into it with. Before long, I’ll have a reputation with all the ones in our city, and we’ll have to hire someone from a neighboring city.
Part Two:
Did you guys think there would BE a part two? I didn’t, but then, I am naïve and occasionally dense.
Part two begins with me calling OPPD to find out what we have to do now. Stealing is totally anathema to me, so I want to be sure that we pay for the electricity the electrician stole. I also want to get the field rep’s point of view and try to get on good terms with him.
HE tells me that the electrician told him……..get this………….that he didn’t NEED a permit, because it was just a “little bitty repair job. Just one blown circuit.”
Holy cow. A blown circuit.
Now, the field rep knows he’s lying, because he’s not a stupid field rep; he’d checked our records before he left the office, and he knows the house is supposed to be on fuses. Hard to have a little bitty blown circuit when there aren’t supposed to BE any circuits.
I apologize profusely, and make sure he knows that we had no idea we needed permits, since that’s why we hired the ELECTRICIAN. He tells me that we’re good, he appreciates me pursuing this, and says not to worry about the seven whole cents the electrician stole. He says he’ll come out today to remove his padlock, since the permits have now been pulled, and the inspector can’t inspect if he can’t get the box off.
When he arrives, I go outside to meet him in person, and ask that he thank the meter reader for me. Gawd only knows how much trouble and expense she saved us by reporting it. If we’d tried to sell the house with circuits instead of fuses with no permit, we’d have been nailed to the wall. Also, I want her to know that she doesn’t have to be afraid to come read our meter without SWAT-team backup. He gives me her direct supervisor’s name, and I call him to tell him. Needless to say, he is surprised to hear from me.
So, now I call the city inspector. Turns out, the OPPD field rep had called the Head Inspector personally. I call him to ask what we have to do to set this all right, and the first thing he tells me is……ready? He tells me that the electrician………..isn’t.
That’s right. He is NOT a licensed electrician. He is not a licensed ANYTHING. I fall on the floor. Once I am capable of using a vocabulary that is not comprised solely of four-letter invective, I say, “B-b-but, we CHECKED. We checked the BBB, and he has a good rating!” He says, “Well, more likely, they just said they didn’t have any information.” I give him the BBB’s web address, including the page on this not-really-an-electrician, where it says he is the sole proprietor and has a satisfactory rating.
Then he asks if we paid for the job. I tell him yes, mostly. We still owe about $140.00, but the job isn’t finished yet. He tells me that it isn’t GOING to be finished by that guy; he doesn’t want that guy touching our basement. He says HE will personally call the REAL owner of the company, who really IS a licensed electrician, and THAT guy will be out here to finish the job and make sure it’s all up to code.
I ask who is technically, legally responsible for pulling permits, and he tells me that the contractor is. Even if he ISN’T a contractor, if he says he is, then he’s responsible. None of this will fall in our laps. Mostly because we pursued it to make it right.
THEN, he asks how much the whole job cost. I tell him, breaking it down: $625.00, plus $170.00 for the permit. Guess what.
The permit only costs…………ready? $22.00.
I fall on the floor again. By now, I’m relaying to Randy, who also falls on the floor. Would you believe they actually acted like they were doing us a FAVOR by waiting until payday for the balance of $142.00, even though we apparently already PAID it??
By now, the inspector is as pissed as we are. He says he will call the owner of the company, will inform him that we aren’t paying one single penny more, and further, that if we EVER have a problem with them: a lien against the house, a summons, a bill, ANYTHING, that we are to call him, and he will personally see that we’re taken care of. He says that he will also make sure that EVERYTHING IN THE HOUSE is up to code, that the owner of said company will do the job for free, and that when he, personally, (instead of one of the regular inspectors) comes to inspect it, if he finds ONE SINGLE THING he doesn’t like, the company will be out of business.
In answer to a question about if we’re going to file a complaint with the BBB, the answer is no. The city inspector is going to do it instead. He says he wants to have the satisfaction.
Only us. These things only happen to us, I swear.
Part Three
You are NOT going to believe this. It just gets better and better, I swear…
Last night, the phone rings, and it’s the “electrician”. He’s calling to tell us that his truck is still broken down, and he can’t make it until next week sometime. Clearly, he hasn’t spoken to his boss yet. Randy tells him to call his boss before he makes any plans.
Today, while I’m trying to work, the phone rings again. This time, I answer it, and guess who it is. He asks for Randy (of course), and I tell him that Randy isn’t available. Which isn’t true; he’s sitting right next to me.
The “electrician”, whose name is Jon, BTW, tells me that he spoke to his boss, and that he (Jon) will be finishing the job. I tell him that, no, he ISN’T going to finish the job, not if we want to pass inspection.
Unbelievable conversation follows:
Jon: (accusingly) I talked to my boss, and found out that YOU called the head inspector.
Me: Yup. I did. I called him yesterday morning. (Listening to the big, sucking sound as the wind leaves Jon’s sails in a huge rush.)
Jon: Well, you opened a big can of worms when you did that.
Me: (jaw falling open) Really? Did I? Well, I’ll tell you something. There shouldn’t have BEEN a can of worms to OPEN.
Jon: (silence)
Me: And I’ll tell you something else. The HCI (Head City Inspector) told me that you aren’t a licensed electrician. He told me that you aren’t a licensed journeyman. In fact, he told me that you aren’t a licensed ANYTHING.
Jon: I don’t know why he said that, I am a -
Me: I don’t care WHAT you are. What I’m telling you is, I had my OPPD field rep and my electrician getting into a shouting match in my back yard, and words like “stealing”, “permits”, and “inspections” were thrown around. I know that the OPPD guy felt it necessary to put a PADLOCK on my meter, and I know that HE called HCI into this, not me.
Jon: (sounding wounded) We do this all the time. I was trying to save you some money.
Me: (dropping jaw again) I specifically asked you if this was legal, and you said that it was legal and illegal. That’s a direct quote. We have several friends who could have done this job, if we’d wanted it done dirty. We didn’t. That’s why we hired YOU.
Jon: Well, your husband said that he knew we weren’t going to pull a permit.
Me: (reaching down to the floor where my jaw is, so I can manually clench my teeth) Yes, he did say that. You know why he said that? He said it because he figured that if we NEEDED a permit, you’d have GOTTEN one. Since you didn’t mention it, he assumed we didn’t NEED one.
Jon: Well, I’m coming back over there with my boss, and together, he and I are going to finish the job.
Me: NO, you are NOT. HCI specifically told me that if I let you back on the job, we will FAIL the inspection. I know your tools are still here, and I know you need them. You can come back to get them any time. But you are not to touch anything in that basement if it doesn’t belong to you, or we won’t pass inspection. HCI is coming to inspect it PERSONALLY.
Jon: But I’m a licensed -
Me: Look. All I’m telling you is, I have the head city inspector telling me that we will not pass inspection if we let you do it. Here’s what I care about: I care about getting this job done clean, and passing inspection. Period.
Then he says he needs to come by today to pick up his tools. I guess he’s going to drive his truck that was too broken-down for him to finish the job today.
Can you believe that?? Then his boss calls, and is not happy when I tell him that HCI told us how much the permit REALLY cost, and that by my math, the job is totally paid for. He tries to justify by explaining to me why he charged us $170.00 for a $22.50 permit. I tell him that none of that is my concern; if Jon cost us penalties by trying to cheat the city, then the extra cost comes out of HIS pocket.
He then tries to throw the responsibility back in Jon’s lap by saying he’s going to have to check Jon’s bona fides. I don’t care if he was certified by GOD. He’s not coming back on this job, unless HCI says it’s okay. Period.
Part Four
Chapter four started yesterday, the usual way; on the phone. That’s when HCI called to ask Randy for a copy of the work order/contract. He said that Jon IS a licensed Journeyman, but he STILL can’t work on his own. And even though he can work with/for a licensed contractor, HCI doesn’t want him working HERE.
Randy agrees to put copies of the work orders in the mail, and does so.
Thirty minutes later, the phone rings again, and it’s Our Friend and His, Jon Not-An-Electrician. The first thing he does is ask Randy, I swear to God, “Is your wife trying to bury me?”
Randy says, “What are you talking about?” and Jon says that *I* faxed copies of the work orders to HCI.
a.) I didn’t fax anything.
b.) HCI didn’t even talk to me, only Randy, and,
c.) How the hell did Jon even know that much??
Randy says that HCI ASKED for them. Jon counters by saying that HCI didn’t have the right to ask for them, that the contract is between him and us. Randy repeats the old mantra, “This man is the HEAD CITY INSPECTOR. He can have anything he WANTS.”
Unless it involves taking off our clothes, and at this point, if it’ll get the damned job done and the inspection passed, we’d consider that.
Tom Bossman calls later to set up an appointment with Randy to be here this morning at 10:00 AM. Randy says that’s fine. Tom says Jon has to be present to show Tom what has been done, and what still needs to be done. Randy says that’s fine, too, so long as Jon doesn’t touch anything. Tom replies that as a licensed journeyman, Jon can work under Tom’s supervision. Randy says that no, he can’t, unless HCI changes his mind.
Fast forward to this morning. At 7:30 AM, Randy leaves a message on HCI’s voicemail, asking him if Jon can finish the job under Tom’s direct supervision, but HCI doesn’t call back in time. At 10:00, I look out the window, and see Jon’s truck in the driveway, so, as per my agreement with Randy, I head upstairs to the bedroom to stay put until they finish and leave.
There are the usual noises, voices in the basement, doors opening and closing, a pipe falling on the floor…..then nothing for about ten or fifteen minutes.
Then I hear Randy’s footsteps on the stairs like the drums of doom. He comes in, and tells me that Jon sat in his truck until Tom arrived, Randy let them in, and damned if Jon didn’t go straight to the breaker box and take the panel off. Randy stopped him, and the three of them had the SAME BLOODY CONVERSATION that we’ve BEEN having with these people for A WEEK. Including the woundy-voiced, pouty-faced part where they were just trying to save us some money by ignoring the permits.
Now, keep in mind that Tom Bossman, who really IS a licensed electrician actually set aside time to be here today. But, apparently, he left his hands at home, because when Randy reminded them YET AGAIN that Jon can’t do the job, instead of stepping in to do it himself, which was what he was SUPPOSED TO DO, Tom argued with him about it. Then they LEFT. Both of them. Got into their trucks and LEFT.
HCI finally called back.
When he found out that they’d left, he announced that now he’s really pissed off. He was even more pissed when Randy told him that
a) Tom had tried to explain the $170.00 for the permits by saying that we needed three of them, and that all three were triple-penalized. HCI is the one who approves them, and he said we did NOT get triple-penalized, and
b) That even though I requested copies of the permits, and Tom admitted he had them “in the truck, somewhere,” they’d left without giving them to us. Which isn’t surprising, since he charged $170.00 for permits that came to a grand total of $67.50. And even if you triple that, it still doesn’t add up.
So, now, he’s after Jon’s license, AND Tom Bossman’s. But this still doesn’t get us any closer to getting the job done that we needed done, (and have paid for) in the FIRST place.
The only thing stopping us from calling in another electrician is that we’d have to pay for it again.
Update: We did finally get it done by Tom Bossman, and HCI approved it. It took weeks longer than it was supposed to, but it did get done.
It’s one of those weekends when DaBoy spends time with his dad, so Randy and I have some quality time. This afternoon, we were napping. Okay, that’s a lie, but I don’t want to lose my PG-13 rating. We were, however, in the same room where napping occurs when the doorbell rang. Which always happens, I swear. It’s like there’s some kind of sign outside that lights up whenever we would be napping if we were sleepy and it says, “C’mon over! Randy wants a computer to work on! Michelle is bored and wants company! Ring the bell!”
So, the doorbell rings. Randy says, “Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me.”
“Well,” I say, “you know this always happens. It’s probably somebody with a broken computer or a Girl Scout.”
“Yeah,” he remarks, not moving. “Isn’t it your turn?”
“No, it isn’t and you know it,” I announce grandly. “Besides, you have fewer clothes to put on than I do. Go get ‘em, tiger.”
“Maybe we should just start going to a hotel,” Randy grumbles, pulling on his sweats. “Or we could just get a Do Not Disturb sign for the front door.” Then he stomps out of the room.
“Yeah, cuz that always worked SO well. Make sure you order some chocolate mint cookies!” I holler at his back.
He shuts the door behind him, and I lie there staring at the ceiling and trying to hear who is at the door. I decide that I need to get one of those hearing aids that lets you listen in on private conversations being carried on in whispers across the street, but getting up and going downstairs myself is probably cheaper. I’m pulling on my schleppy-I’d-never-wear-these-in-public-shoes when Randy storms back into the bedroom in a worse mood than when he left it.
“Who was at the door?” I ask mildly.
“The owner of this HOUSE,” he snarls, heading into the closet to change from sweats into jeans.
“Wait,” I protest. “What on earth is she doing here? Doesn’t she live about four states away? And what happened to giving us notice?”
Through mumbled curses and violently clanging clothes hangers, he says, “Oh, noooo. Notice is only required if she wants to come INSIDE.”
“Okay….”
“Well, she doesn’t want to come inside,” he informs me. “She and her FATHER are here to build an add-on to the DECK.”
“They drove through four states without notice to build onto the deck?”
“No,” Randy snaps, “we were supposed to have GOTTEN notice. Apparently, the property manager just FORGOT.”
Wool, okay, this is unexpected. I decide that this is way too juicy to miss, so I head outside to meet the owner of the house. As I walk around the side of the house, I see fence sections leaning against the wall. Like, wooden slat fence sections except every other slat is missing, and the ones that are there are more ornate. They’re about four feet tall. They’d look great around a yard, but around a platform deck? No.
So I introduce myself, and she tells me that the reason she’s adding fence sections to the deck is because when the insurance company found out that I have a four-year old son, they very strongly recommended it. So we can’t sue her if he falls the entire 30 inches from the deck to the ground and barks his shin or something, I suppose.
I say, “But……he’s not four. He’s fourTEEN.”
This brings all activity to a screeching halt. “He’s not four?” she asks me as her father looks on in horror.
“No, fourteen,” I repeat. They look at each other with identical expressions of frustration, then decide that since they’re here, they may as well go ahead and do the job. I shrug and look on; it’s not my deck.
By the time they get halfway through it, it’s dark and about 40 degrees outside. Also, it’s raining just often and hard enough to worry about all the extension cords and electrical drills they’re using to attach the fencing. We invite them in for coffee and she seems to be happy with the way the house looks with our stuff in it.
It takes them until around 10 PM to finish the deck. There’s a small opening where the steps are, but otherwise the fencing goes all the way around, wall to wall. It’s going to take some getting used to…..
Except for one tiny little detail.
The big George Foreman grill is sitting on the deck. The BIG George Foreman grill. The one that is WIDER than the opening in the brand-spanking-new fence-rail deck sides.
*sigh*