Toilet Talking

 I have agita about not having written in awhile. I was on vacation but it conjures up some old baggage. It's like the time I went away to summer camp after 7th grade, only to return home to find that Betsy Carlson had a new best friend, leaving me out in the cold. I hope history won't repeat itself here in the blogosphere. Needy much?!

I'm finally getting around to decorating my office. For those of you following along, my boyfriend and I recently built a house, and for the past three months, all we've been doing is buying... and returning. Let's just say that we're very familiar now with the term, buyer's remorse.

Focusing and settling in has been hard in my echo chamber of an office, so I decided that the time was now. I got online this morning and went trolling for desks, filing cabinets, rugs and loveseats. Oh, yeah, I had high hopes of doing it all in one fell swoop. I got as far as a desk and two filing cabinets, which I think is a brilliant start.

My office is going to look like a Pottery Barn catalogue and I don't care. I decided that my time was actually worth something, so instead of shopping around, investigating, comparing and trying to be unique with my decor (for weeks on end like I used to do) I said, f' it. I found a picture of an office that I liked, and I was going to have the items gloriously appear at my door. And the best part? I won't need an Allen wrench or a power drill. I'm bidding the days of assembling my furniture adieu. Adieu!

I picked out the items that I wanted and was at the checkout page, only to see that I didn't get the free shipping that was advertised (in a bright red I might add) You couldn't miss it. I called customer service and spoke with David at extension 2033. SIDEBAR: I just looked at my scrap piece of paper where I had jotted down David's extension, so that I would be accurate here in my post. "OCD Anal Retentive, your table is ready!"

I told David that the discount was not applied to my order. He was on it. I heard his fingers pounding the keyboard, as he asked me for the item numbers. And then, in the middle of item number two, I had to go to the bathroom and coincidentally, it was number two. No problem, I thought, I took David to the bathroom with me.

Herein lies the dilemma. Is it rude to talk on the phone while on the toilet? Of course I could've hit mute, but then I would have had to keep switching it on and off, because we were having a dialogue. He wasn't reciting a monologue. While I balanced the phone in the crook of my neck, I dropped trou and did my business. I don't have to go into the details here (thank you Girlfriend Mom) but I did start worrying about what David was actually hearing.

I managed to complete the job at hand, only to be faced with the flush. He was sure to hear that. I couldn't leave it until I got off the phone because the cleaning woman was here and I didn't know where her next stop was. I hit mute, flushed, and ran (literally) out of the bathroom and hit mute again, continuing my conversation with David.

I'm not sure why I made a federal case out of hitting the mute button. It was as if David's questions, and not wanting the cleaning woman to think that I was uncouth, completely overwhelmed me and I panicked. It incapacitated me in a way that prompted me to question myself and ask, "What is your problem?"

However, upon further reflection, I pose the question, "Who among us has never taken a cell phone into restrooms (private or public) and chit chatted with reckless abandon?" I rest my case. And I got my discount. Thank you Pottery Barn David at extension 2033.

If I Had A Hammer

When I was asked to write about building a  house with my boyfriend, and how we’re keeping it together (our relationship, not the house) I starting thinking about how easy it’s been. Then again, I’m comparing it to the last time I owned a house with a man. Let’s call him my ex-husband. So really, anything short of divorce feels like I’m ahead of the game.

When my ex-husband and I decided to buy a house, I wasn’t exactly excited by the idea. I was hesitant and knew deep down that I didn’t want a house (kind of like how I knew deep down that I never wanted to be married). Somehow, I instinctively knew that being a homeowner wasn’t to be taken likely. Not like having a baby. We were having a house!

I didn’t want the responsibility. Being a dog owner was about as responsible as I wanted to get. Most of the time I have just enough bandwidth to go food shopping and showering, let alone, grouting, gardening, and painting. But I stupidly agreed, ignoring the little voice inside of me, which was screaming the loudest, “STOP, don’t do it. It’s wrong. You’re wrong.” In the end, I succumbed to peer pressure, just like I did when I said, “I do.”

My ex assured me that it would be our house and that we’d share the responsibility. We’d be partners in the endeavor. Bullshit! It was like talking to a five year old when they want a dog, “Please, please can I have one? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You won’t have to do anything. Trust me.”

I resented my ex-husband for the remainder of our marriage, which dragged on for another year. A year where I watered a lawn that I never wanted, and fixed endless garage doors and gates that I grew to hate. I was angry at him for lying to me and pushing me into something that was based on false pretenses. I was also angry at myself for not listening to my gut. That was never going to happen again.

And it didn’t. This time around is different. For one thing, my boyfriend and I aren’t married, so there’s no chance of divorce. How’s that for maturity? I was very honest and clear about my feelings regarding building a house. It’s my boyfriend’s dream to have a beach house, not mine. I could rent for the rest of my life. I don’t look at a house as anything other than another place to do laundry.

I’m an active participant, and we’re picking out plumbing fixtures and windows together, but my boyfriend has taken the lead, which he’s done with aplomb. This is important to me because the last time a house was involved, I tended to use it as an excuse. I couldn’t possibly write, or work on the artistic endeavor that I was involved in at the time. I had to make a Home Depot run for steel wool, so I could clean the rust off of the antique kitchen cabinet handles. Clearly that was more important goddam it!

Speaking of kitchen cabinets. We hired an Amish man to build our cabinets. He’s a sweet man, and takes his Amishness very seriously. Since he can’t drive, he has a driver to chauffeur him around and he borrows a non-Amish person’s phone to call clients. I’m convinced that he’s crushing on me. He and my boyfriend were at the house a couple of weeks ago, reviewing the final measurements. When I walked through the temporary plywood front door, his face lit up like I was a spanking new horse and buggy.  He said, “What’s going on?” I replied, “My electricity. You?”

Through this current house process, I’m learning that nothing, not even a convection oven, or wood toilet seat cover, is worth getting my thong in a bunch over. Maybe it’s because I’m older. Maybe it has something to do with my boyfriend being able to change a lightbulb and acting like an adult. Or perhaps it could be that honesty really is the way to go.

I show up when I need to, make a decision when I’m asked to, and I’m not procrastinating, as evidenced by this article. I think the following exchange with the salesperson at Ferguson’s Plumbing and Builder Products sums up our attitudes best.

Saleswoman: “Do you have any idea what kind of bathtub that you’re looking for?”
Boyfriend: “The bathtub has to fit two people... possibly three.”
I smile mischievously.