Surprise: something that has nothing to do with real estate.
My mother would have been 77 on July 26th, had she not lost her six-month battle with breast cancer in 1985.
Usually, it's just another day of the week. My dad will call to check on me, but typically, I'm just living my life that day, as I knew she wanted me to do.
But this year, I decided to celebrate her life with a Mommy-Daughter day. I took my little energy ball and her American Girl doll, Addie, out on the town. We went bike riding around the neighborhood, then I took her to this huge park with winding paths that she had a ball navigating. She hopped off her bike and ran like the wind toward the playground, then announced her hunger after a while, chugging down a kid-sized jug of water to make her point.
We drove to a mega shopping center, and joined a fantastic kid party. A musical group of young African American men was adding a hip twist to kid tunes. They had all manner of drums laying about, so we sat down and jammed to the Wheels on the Bus with the other children, parents and nannies. The trolley happened past, so we hopped on. Next stop, a farmer's market, where we noshed on Brazilian food in the open air. We stopped by the sticker store and she got to pick out two sheets, choosing one of butterflies and the other of cameras.
Off to American Girl we marched, the first time with Addie. We got her shoe fixed at the doll hospital and, as I suspected, she and my daughter were the only little Black girls in the store. But surprisingly, the woman who manages the store is African American. She fixed Addie for free, and treated me to a discussion on what makes Addie a valuable doll for my daughter. Not so much because she is associated with our history of slavery, but because the stories that accompany this doll encourage self-respect, independent thought, and resilience under pressure. These are all values I was taught by my parents and in scripture, and would like my daughter to learn.
But Addie's story is written for 8 year olds. As I was reading it to my daughter a month ago, she listened intently, but her facial expression indicated that she had no idea what I was saying. Clearly, she was just enjoying my lap. As the manager verified, at this time in her life, she's more likely to embrace their Bitty Baby line--goodness knows she always makes a beeline for that part of the store after we check out Addie's display. But, I think involving her in Addie's little marketing machine is probably enough. And it's not my fault. She was a gift.
After American Girl, we hopped on the trolley once more and headed home. Spent, my daughter nodded off in her carseat. I thought about the good time we had, not unlike many others--yet special because of who we were celebrating. I have so many pleasant memories of days out on the town with mom, it was nice to intentionally honor her day with my daughter.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Drywall Guy
Mr. Muhammad has a team of "guys" he uses for various jobs around our house. He picks them up out of nowhere, and they do their thing. They come one day, and then you might not see them for a week, and then they're here for a few in a row.
There's Tile Guy. Demo Guy. Plumbing Guy. Drywall Guy. Electrical Guy. I took the time to learn their names, but I'm tired today, due to their blasting about for the past week, and their real monikers escape me. So, they are each xx guy, for the purposes of this post.
Today, Drywall Guy stealthily moved about my house.
He doesn't speak. He just puts up boards, he patches. Big huge chunks of wall and ceiling missing due to our careless plumber's antics, the hanging aftermath of the removal of our kitchen soffit, the rot gut inards of our laundry room wall. Drywall guy. He heals it all.
Our house, officially today, feels like a home.
The only thing irritating about Drywall Guy is that every day I decide to clean--which ain't that often, considering I live in a construction zone--is the day that Mr. Muhammad's called him up. He may be stealthy, but he leaves his ashy mark everywhere. Today, all over my toes, too. I'm a chalky mess.
But otherwise, thank you, Drywall Guy.
There's Tile Guy. Demo Guy. Plumbing Guy. Drywall Guy. Electrical Guy. I took the time to learn their names, but I'm tired today, due to their blasting about for the past week, and their real monikers escape me. So, they are each xx guy, for the purposes of this post.
Today, Drywall Guy stealthily moved about my house.
He doesn't speak. He just puts up boards, he patches. Big huge chunks of wall and ceiling missing due to our careless plumber's antics, the hanging aftermath of the removal of our kitchen soffit, the rot gut inards of our laundry room wall. Drywall guy. He heals it all.
Our house, officially today, feels like a home.
The only thing irritating about Drywall Guy is that every day I decide to clean--which ain't that often, considering I live in a construction zone--is the day that Mr. Muhammad's called him up. He may be stealthy, but he leaves his ashy mark everywhere. Today, all over my toes, too. I'm a chalky mess.
But otherwise, thank you, Drywall Guy.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Load Bearing Wall
You know that scene in The Money Pit where the house is coming together, and it seems the army of men know what they're doing after all? Of course, then Tom Hanks falls into a vat of paint that whole Rube Goldberg incident ensues. But you know what I mean.
We haven't quite had such an incident here yet--though I waited for it as a handyman chopped into a load-bearing wall today and the whole house shook.
For right now, I can see the dust clearing, the house becoming more habitable, and feeling more like a living, breathing domicile, as opposed to ancient rubble. As I looked down at my daughter's footprints in the filth, I could actually imagine a day where I wouldn't have to worry about her contracting tetanus from a rusty nail.
Hubby grilled steaks and corn on the cob while I shined up the brass on a couple of antique switchplates. Right before dinner, I showed him the freshly cleaned master bath, new shower curtain, window covering ready to be hung, scrubbed medicine cabinet and...
...the tracks of a worker's boots across my newly mopped floor.
Oh well. It's our version of home, for now.
As I lay here in bed, I noticed my fingers were unconsciously encircling the purple cross around my neck, the one my father-in-law gave me. I have faith. It will all come together. God will prevail over the rubble and fortify this home. He is our load-bearing wall. Our home might get shaken every once in a while, but we will not fall.
We haven't quite had such an incident here yet--though I waited for it as a handyman chopped into a load-bearing wall today and the whole house shook.
For right now, I can see the dust clearing, the house becoming more habitable, and feeling more like a living, breathing domicile, as opposed to ancient rubble. As I looked down at my daughter's footprints in the filth, I could actually imagine a day where I wouldn't have to worry about her contracting tetanus from a rusty nail.
Hubby grilled steaks and corn on the cob while I shined up the brass on a couple of antique switchplates. Right before dinner, I showed him the freshly cleaned master bath, new shower curtain, window covering ready to be hung, scrubbed medicine cabinet and...
...the tracks of a worker's boots across my newly mopped floor.
Oh well. It's our version of home, for now.
As I lay here in bed, I noticed my fingers were unconsciously encircling the purple cross around my neck, the one my father-in-law gave me. I have faith. It will all come together. God will prevail over the rubble and fortify this home. He is our load-bearing wall. Our home might get shaken every once in a while, but we will not fall.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The Money Pit
At least two dozen strangers have trampled through our new/old home over the past two weeks. Hubby decided that if we don't upgrade everything in this 80-year-old bucket now, we never will. OK, we're lazy, unmechanical, and that's true and so we're remodeling. Hubby has all these contractors engaged, people of various levels of skill and licensure. And Home Depot guys.
Until it's all done, we're sequestered into our family room, our bed separated from our daughter's by her chunky dresser. She sleeps hard, which affords privacy for, well, you know. It hasn't been too bad living so closely. It's like an apartment, in a filthy, falling apart building, crawling with an army of men.
Army of men? you say. What's that? You remember "The Money Pit" right? It had the nerve to come on last weekend and we laughed so hard. Once, hubby tried to use his inhaler, and couldn't keep his mouth closed, for giggling. He was all, "Pfft, pfft, pfft!" during that scene where Tom Hanks tries to stoke his logs, and first the fireplace collapses, followed by the chimney. Tom Hanks hired an "army of men" to fix the place and at first they destroyed it. We couldn't stop laughing.
Maybe you had to be there. Or live here.
I was there, when I saw my ceiling fall down before my eyes the very next day. The plumber, who we'll call Ralph, decided it was in his way. And he decided to tell me that our antique heating grills had been destroyed when he removed them to cap the gas valve. Then Ralph decided to disappear for a week, after making several more fruitless holes in the wall. My friend, a lawyer, told me tell Ralph that she's on to him, and he should give me my expensive grills back, or else. Maybe I'll wait till he returns and finishes his job. Just like I don't criticize waitresses who might spit in my food, I'm not gonna diss a plumber who can insert fecal matter up my kitchen faucet.
There's the plumber, and then there's the electrician, and let's say his name is ol' Sam. He has 15 children by six different women. This fact emerges after 16 minutes of conversation with anybody. That's a whole lot of cheating, which should bother me, given I have to rely on his honest work ethic to avoid being shocked to death.
Instead, it's funny. He is 75. I enjoy this ol' Sam, and his crusty ol' barely intelligible electrician stories. He's been scalped, shocked and almost lost a finger, and has the scars to prove it. I don't mind when I'm laying in my bed, and he just comes walking in with some piece of dirty electrical crap in his hands, attached to some story. He's a source of live entertainment in the midst of this rubble.
I heard him yell at one his workers one day. This was after the boy got shocked and I heard him curse in unison with the sound of breaking glass. Then ol' Sam said, "Why you want to tare up somebody house?" Next, I thought I heard a pop upside the head, followed by more reprimanding of a person who almost died in my kitchen.
Then there's Mr. Muhammad. Yeah, that sounds like a good name for him. He does bathroom remodeling, and sweats. The first day I met so-called Mr. Muhammad, it wasn't all that hot, and the tip of his nose was dripping like our house was in his native Lebanon. I must have had a quizzical expression on my face because I remember him saying, "I come out of the shower sweating." Who knows what dumb thing I said in response. Little did I know, this man really never stops sweating and it's some kind embarassing disorder. He never looks you in the eye, talks to you standing sideways, and keeps a rag on his shoulder at all times to wipe his whole wet face. But, oddly, Mr. Muhammad doesn't stink. Well, I guess not so odd because I read somewhere recently that sweat itself doesn't stink. It's when it intermingles with bacteria that you get B.O. So, maybe that's why he remodels bathrooms: he can catch a quick shower anytime he wants, when nobody's looking.
I just wish he wouldn't have thrown one his old sweat rags into my open box of unpacked shoes. Makes me want to throw my whole shoe wardrobe away, and head up Payless. And who can afford cleaning out even Payless after buying a house?
Although ol' Sam amuses me, Mr. Muhammad is my favorite. His crew is usually the first to come and last to leave. Last week, just because he thought we were in a hurry, he worked straight through the weekend, eight days in a row. He drove 30 minutes out of his way to help me pick out tile, and didn't complain when I was too picky and couldn't find the right one. So what?: the tiles I eventually chose are a little crooked on the wall, and the creepy looking Home Depot guy he had constructing our new closet apparently doesn't know what a level is. And, OK, so Mr. Muhammad left me alone in the house with said Home Depot guy at one point, which I guess should tick me off. But I'm sure that's only because Mr. Muhammad worked eight days in a row last week for us, and maybe he's not thinking straight.
The flooring people smile a lot. Only one, the boss, speaks English. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.
Until it's all done, we're sequestered into our family room, our bed separated from our daughter's by her chunky dresser. She sleeps hard, which affords privacy for, well, you know. It hasn't been too bad living so closely. It's like an apartment, in a filthy, falling apart building, crawling with an army of men.
Army of men? you say. What's that? You remember "The Money Pit" right? It had the nerve to come on last weekend and we laughed so hard. Once, hubby tried to use his inhaler, and couldn't keep his mouth closed, for giggling. He was all, "Pfft, pfft, pfft!" during that scene where Tom Hanks tries to stoke his logs, and first the fireplace collapses, followed by the chimney. Tom Hanks hired an "army of men" to fix the place and at first they destroyed it. We couldn't stop laughing.
Maybe you had to be there. Or live here.
I was there, when I saw my ceiling fall down before my eyes the very next day. The plumber, who we'll call Ralph, decided it was in his way. And he decided to tell me that our antique heating grills had been destroyed when he removed them to cap the gas valve. Then Ralph decided to disappear for a week, after making several more fruitless holes in the wall. My friend, a lawyer, told me tell Ralph that she's on to him, and he should give me my expensive grills back, or else. Maybe I'll wait till he returns and finishes his job. Just like I don't criticize waitresses who might spit in my food, I'm not gonna diss a plumber who can insert fecal matter up my kitchen faucet.
There's the plumber, and then there's the electrician, and let's say his name is ol' Sam. He has 15 children by six different women. This fact emerges after 16 minutes of conversation with anybody. That's a whole lot of cheating, which should bother me, given I have to rely on his honest work ethic to avoid being shocked to death.
Instead, it's funny. He is 75. I enjoy this ol' Sam, and his crusty ol' barely intelligible electrician stories. He's been scalped, shocked and almost lost a finger, and has the scars to prove it. I don't mind when I'm laying in my bed, and he just comes walking in with some piece of dirty electrical crap in his hands, attached to some story. He's a source of live entertainment in the midst of this rubble.
I heard him yell at one his workers one day. This was after the boy got shocked and I heard him curse in unison with the sound of breaking glass. Then ol' Sam said, "Why you want to tare up somebody house?" Next, I thought I heard a pop upside the head, followed by more reprimanding of a person who almost died in my kitchen.
Then there's Mr. Muhammad. Yeah, that sounds like a good name for him. He does bathroom remodeling, and sweats. The first day I met so-called Mr. Muhammad, it wasn't all that hot, and the tip of his nose was dripping like our house was in his native Lebanon. I must have had a quizzical expression on my face because I remember him saying, "I come out of the shower sweating." Who knows what dumb thing I said in response. Little did I know, this man really never stops sweating and it's some kind embarassing disorder. He never looks you in the eye, talks to you standing sideways, and keeps a rag on his shoulder at all times to wipe his whole wet face. But, oddly, Mr. Muhammad doesn't stink. Well, I guess not so odd because I read somewhere recently that sweat itself doesn't stink. It's when it intermingles with bacteria that you get B.O. So, maybe that's why he remodels bathrooms: he can catch a quick shower anytime he wants, when nobody's looking.
I just wish he wouldn't have thrown one his old sweat rags into my open box of unpacked shoes. Makes me want to throw my whole shoe wardrobe away, and head up Payless. And who can afford cleaning out even Payless after buying a house?
Although ol' Sam amuses me, Mr. Muhammad is my favorite. His crew is usually the first to come and last to leave. Last week, just because he thought we were in a hurry, he worked straight through the weekend, eight days in a row. He drove 30 minutes out of his way to help me pick out tile, and didn't complain when I was too picky and couldn't find the right one. So what?: the tiles I eventually chose are a little crooked on the wall, and the creepy looking Home Depot guy he had constructing our new closet apparently doesn't know what a level is. And, OK, so Mr. Muhammad left me alone in the house with said Home Depot guy at one point, which I guess should tick me off. But I'm sure that's only because Mr. Muhammad worked eight days in a row last week for us, and maybe he's not thinking straight.
The flooring people smile a lot. Only one, the boss, speaks English. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.
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