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.