A Stranger and a Strange Man

Those who read my status updates on Facebook know I've been whining about my landlord and his attempts at plumbing work. It started when he decided that the filters for the existing reverse osmosis system cost too much. By the time it was over, I think he could've purchased several year's worth of them with how much he ended up spending. Not only did he buy a new system, but when it didn't fit (after supposedly measuring for that), he bought part after part after part, then a new faucet, then more parts, and each one involved a separate trip to the store (with gas at $4.44 a gallon).

The project started a couple weeks ago and culminated on Saturday, when the thing I've vaguely feared ever since reading Sue Grafton's B is for Burglar (I think, it's been a long time), happened. I was in the shower, with my hair full of conditioner, and the water was shut off. In that, or one of Grafton's books, Kinsey is responsible for having the water turned off to an apartment complex and a woman comes outside in her robe, all soapy, her hair full of shampoo, screaming. Very true to life. I got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door, and screamed loudly enough to make the neighbors curious, I'm sure. John said something about "not knowing" but I yelled back (through the quickly closed door, as he actually walked in my direction and I hadn't stopped to put a robe on) something about did he think I was in there brushing my teeth for half an hour, or something equally eloquent.

It's been stressful.

As the whole plumbing project from Hell lingered on, I've been sad, confused and upset, (over something else far more important than drinking water) but determined not to give in to those negative emotions or the black hole of depression might claim me. Acting happy is hard work.

I'm tired.

Today, as I padded through the house toward the bathroom, my landlord, John, said good morning. I asked what was good about it and he said he had someone coming over later to see about renting the spare room. As I let hot water course over the sore spot on my back (no idea how I upset my muscles, but they're spasming in anger over certain moves I make), I told myself not to worry, that this person probably wouldn't want to move in here. The other two didn't. Once you meet John and see the house, you tend to want to go look at whatever else Craigslist has to offer.

I was sitting at my desk, crying over an email I was writing, when I saw a woman walk toward the front door. She had a horse with her. Okay, it was a dog. But when the dog is part Dalmation and part Great Dane, you can see the confusion. I didn't get up to go meet her and the dog. I just sat and composed myself, until the dog, Birky, found me.

Some of you know that, way back when (1985), I was bitten by a dog. On the face. Specifically my lower lip. For the most part I'm over it, but big dogs still make me nervous. So when this one walked over to me I pushed my chair back against the wall and put my hands up like Birky was holding a gun on me. His owner, Coral, quickly showed up in the hall and called him away. Feeling like a ninny, I said I wasn't good with dogs at first, and gave my perfectly good excuse. She said she'd also been bitten in the face and she understood. Birky, however, did not understand. I know some won't believe me, but that dog looked at me and clearly communicated, "I did nothing. I'm an innocent dog. I'll thank you not to accuse me like that again." It was so effective he had me asking him if it was okay for me to pet him. A little later I got him water, and when he investigated the fireplace and got a snout full of cobwebs, he walked over and wiped them off -- on my knee. Alpha was established, and it's not me.

So far I've shared the normal part of the day. Upon talking with Coral I learned that she's a psychic, an astrologer, a former massage therapist, and a writer. She has now decided she doesn't want to massage anymore, and would like to earn her living by writing alone. So she's manifesting that. In fact, she was here because John wants to enter into an arrangement with her whereby she edits/ghostwrites for him and he provides a room. Edits what, you ask? Why, his 65,000 word novel that he's been writing, unbeknownst to me. Granted, I try not to talk to him much, but...but...I'm not sure how to explain the weirdness of finding out he's writing a book. It's sort of like finding out that your OCD accountant will be showing his abstract paintings at the downtown gallery.

And it's a science fiction novel. And it has elements in it that he's stated in the past aren't real or possible, when we used to talk. This information would've been enough to digest, but Coral was just full of interesting stories and enthusiastic possibilities. She's happy and personable and fun and says things that make you feel good about yourself. And if I wasn't born and bred in New Jersey, there'd be no little voice saying, "Danger, Will Robinson!" Grifters are charming or they wouldn't be successful. I'm not saying that's what she is. She could be entirely legit. I hope she is. I hope she's a free spirit, who just happens to be a nomad, and she'll help John with his story and mutual beneficence will abound.

But, without any thought on either of their sides, and without any checking of references (however futile that may be, realistically), she's moving in here tomorrow. With her horse-sized dog and a cat, too. And John will get approximately 16 hours of her editing/ghostwriting work a month, because her rate is $30 - $35 an hour and that equals about $600. a month, and after that, if he wants more, he will PAY HER.

Okay, it's true that I can't read crap and pretend to like it. And, while I haven't read John's story, I do know that a character named Jim Dandy who does, indeed, come to the rescue, is not my cuppa. So I can't see myself providing this service to John in exchange for rent. Also, he didn't ask me for a very good reason. He needs the money I pay him. This woman is a bonus for him. He's got my money, and he gets to ogle a 38 year old blonde and have her show interest in his masterpiece. It's a win-win for him.

For me, I'm looking forward to having to lock my door any time I'm away from my room, because you can take the girl out of New Jersey but you can't take New Jersey out of the girl, and my Spidey sense says that trusting is not the way to go for now. She doesn't own a bed. The room is unfurnished. She's going to manifest a bed, or sleep on the couch. I'm not being uncharitable, just cautious.

Perhaps this experience is meant to teach me to be more open, to appreciate a wholly different sort of person, and her energy will rub off and motivate me to do more, sooner. Or perhaps we'll come home one day to find all those expensive tools in the garage gone, along with our new roomie and her pets. My door will remain locked, while I try to keep my mind open.

I keep looking Heavenward and saying, "Gwennie, do you know about this? Are you paying attention? Keep an eye out, okay?"

 

Construction, part deux

I now know how to makes shelves. I now also know how not to make shelves. I will probably never want to make my own shelves again. But that could just be the incredible weariness talking. If you didn't read yesterday's blog, lemme see if I can put a link to it here: http://3mmaryquitecontrary.blogspot.com/2012_03_01_archive.html I know there's a nicer way to do it, but I don't know how.

Anyway, the adventure continued today. John said that he'd be ready to start working at 9:00 AM. Since he usually gets up at 10:00, I wasn't holding my breath. We started at 11:00 or thereabouts. Yesterday, when he was tired, he decided that we shouldn't make two shelves, each 3x6. That would require more cutting than he wanted to do, so he said a single shelf measuring 6x6 would be fine. Today, once again feeling energetic, he announced that we really had to make two shelves, because one big one would be too heavy to move around. I tried to say "fine" without a tone.

The winds are blowing today. Offshore winds with gusts around 20 mph. I was afraid John would say we couldn't work on the shelves because of the wind, and he did seem to think about it when he got outside and noticed them, but he likely didn't want to deal with my pouty face if he put it off. I started off all bundled up (I don't care if the rest of the country has "real" winter weather, 60 with a wind chill of 50-55 is cold to me.), with a long-sleeved shirt, a denim shirt over that, and a denim jacket on top. Once again I wore my winter gloves. As we worked my jeans kept falling down because they're loose, and between the gloves and all the layers I had on, I couldn't get a grip on the waistband to hike them up. The sun finally warmed me up enough to take off a few layers and be able to pull my pants back where they belonged.

I thought maybe today would be about me watching John put the shelves together. A girl can dream. He had me measure and mark all the uprights so we'd know where to place the supports. Then I had to hold the boards in place as he used a power tool to screw the supports down. It wasn't going well, and hours later I realized that it was due to the screws being the wrong length. He spent hours fighting to get them in, when he had a different size screw all along. I think he forgot.

He would often ask me if the piece we were working on was square. When I'd check and say no he'd say, "It's close enough. This is rough carpentry." Then he'd ask me again. I began chanting silently to myself. Once again he had me move every piece of wood that needed to be moved, and had me lift each section as we finished it to put it aside. There was a lot that happened that I'd think about sharing later (now) but, perhaps blessedly, it's gone from my memory now.

I know that at one point I started daydreaming about what my great-uncle Paul would say if he were looking down from Heaven on the scene taking place on our patio. Paul was a master carpenter.

"Mary Maureen, how on earth did you get yourself involved in such a fool project?" he'd say.

"Help me, Uncle Paul! I didn't know it'd be like this!"

"Girl, if he says 'It's only rough carpentry' one more time, I want you to step aside, because I'm gonna ask the big fella up here to send down a lightning bolt. What's going on there is sacrilege!"

Yesterday, when he'd insisted that one shelf was the way to go, he wanted to cut the top shelf piece 77 inches. I said no, to cut it 78 inches plus, just in case. Today, when those pieces had to be cut in half for the now two shelves, they needed to be 39 inches each. He took credit for cutting them long, and forgot the number 39 three times in the space of two minutes.

I can't even describe what happened when he suddenly decided we needed to use a 2x4 as a diagonal brace across the back. It began with him wanting me to grow two extra hands and ended with the use of clamps when I failed in that endeavor. It also meant yet more cutting, though the winds took the sawdust out to sea, so I didn't have to sweep it up later.

As we neared completion he started talking about me sanding and painting the monstrosities, um, I mean shelves. I told him that was not going to happen. I couldn't even imagine sanding, since every single piece of wood used to make these shelves has an "issue." He pointed out that splinters were likely unless I always used gloves whenever I went to the storage unit. I told him I knew that, and I intended to get duct tape and use that instead of all the work in sanding and painting, or even just sanding. Since he didn't think of the duct tape idea it was automatically not a good one. He's tried to talk me out of it three times already and likely will again until it's a done deal. At that point he'll say something disparaging about it.

He was surprised that I didn't want to take the shelves over to my unit when we finished, at 3:00 this afternoon. I told him that the storage place closes at six or six-thirty, and I don't want to rush this reorganization. About five minutes later he talked about loading the shelves into the truck. I said it'd be better to do that tomorrow, in case he wants to go out tonight. He looked at me blankly. I said, "I'm not going to do this until tomorrow, remember?" It was as if I'd just said it for the first time.

He understood being taken out to eat, though. We went to his favorite place, Coco's, and I'm sure he enjoyed his meal even more because it was my treat. More than the free food, he wanted praise, so I told him how wonderful the shelves were, how perfect they'd be for my purposes, etc. He wanted to know if I was going to take pictures of them to show my friends. How I kept from rolling my eyes, I don't know. I may take pics, but showing off will not be the motivation.

Oh, he did give me a tiny bit of credit for something today. He'd had me put the shelves on their sides, so he could further shore up the whole thing with more screws. When that was done, it needed to be righted. He'd helped with the first one, but with the second he let me lift it by myself. These things are made out of 2x6s, 2x3s and 2x4s. They're 3 feet wide and 6 feet tall and 18 inches deep. They're heavy. I looked at him and said, "Thanks so much for the help," in my most sarcastic tone. He laughed and said, "You did that all by yourself. I wanted to see if you could, and you did." Womenfolk who are strong will always be a source of amazement to John.

I'm thinking of telling him that I'm going to duct tape the masterpieces in the morning before he's up and ready to deliver them to my storage unit. That should keep him from sleeping in. He'll probably get up at dawn and shout at my door that it's time to go -- just to foil an idea that wasn't his. Unless, by the time I tell him my plan, he's convinced himself that duct tape was his idea and a fine one at that.

To be positive again, rather than ungrateful and complaining, I have two shelves and can now reorganize my stuff so I'll be able to get at it with ease. It took two days and a bit of "going to my happy place" in my mind, but it's done and I've learned a new skill in the process.

 

 

Smiling and Swallowing Sawdust

When I first brought all my worldly goods out to California, the stuff in my storage unit fit nicely. It was neat and organized and there was a path down the middle of the space so I could get to everything. I even knew where just about everything was, even though I'd had no time to label boxes when I had to move in a hurry (long story). But, stuff happens, ya know? I took cold weather (hahahahaha) clothes out and put warm weather clothes back, books out, books in, etc., and I wasn't always careful to repack perfectly.

Then my father wore me down and got me to go back to Florida to pack up as much of my mom's things as I could ("so they won't be stolen after I die"). The things that survived the awful, horrible, untrustworthy, did I say horrible? people at UPS had to go into the unit, too. The stacks went higher and there was no longer a pathway in the middle. After trying to get something I needed one day and being saved from death-by-avalanche-of-boxes by my guardian angel, I gave up retrieving anything that wasn't within a foot of the door. And the stacks of boxes are leaning precariously, and who knows what's happening to the stuff in the bottom boxes. It can't be good.

I thought that a few six foot long 2x12s would be the solution. Stack up some cinder blocks (less than a dollar a piece) between them and -- Bob's your uncle -- shelves! But Home Depot wanted about ten bucks a piece for the boards. It quickly turned into a $40. or so idea, and wouldn't be all that sturdy. Then a friend said he'd give me some boards, that it was no problem because he had scrap wood, blahblahblah. He lied. He didn't get them for me and now he never will.

So the whining began. I swear, it comes so easily to me that I don't even realize I'm doing it. That goes for pouting, too. I'd bang around the kitchen, making lunch or dinner, and grumble about something. John, my landlord, would ask what I was going on about. I'd say that I wasn't talking to him, but since he asked I couldn't get to such and such because my storage unit had become an unfriendly place, and I couldn't buy another such and such knowing there was one in my storage unit -- heavy sigh, lower lip protruding -- somewhere.

He asked if I'd looked at Craigslist to see if anyone was giving away shelves. I had. No one was. He announced yesterday, when the power in our neighborhood was off all day long, that we'd go to Home Depot and price the lumber necessary for him to build me two storage shelves. He'd do it for free, as long as I paid for the materials.

Most who know me know that my opinion of John changed dramatically after Gwen got sick and went into the hospital. And that he did something so despicable that Rick had to teach me self-defense techniques. (I am stuck here for the time being. No one reputable will rent an apartment or a room to someone with no job, so I can't simply move.) But, after weeks of barely speaking to him, except to mention that I'm armed, he's stopped that behavior. And I looked at this as an opportunity to see how "those" women live. The ones who live with men (men they only pretend to like or love, as they make them miserable, refusing to share affection, etc.) while using them as meal tickets. One really shouldn't judge until one knows what they're judging. The closest I'd get to knowing would be this sort of situation. So I went to Home Depot with John.

2x3s are ridiculously expensive. Seriously, the cheapest ones were about 2 dollars each. This time the total was going to be about $50., for a crappy set of shelves that would forever live in the dark of my storage unit. I gave up. But John said I should just keep checking Craigslist every day, because you never know.

I checked Craigslist this morning and the first thing listed under the Free category was, "Wood." The pic showed a big pile of lumber and plywood and gave a number to call. Praying that it wouldn't be located so far away that the price of gas would make it impossible, I called. It was in Oxnard! I went running into the living room and yelled (partly out of excitement, partly because John is hard of hearing), "Free wood in Oxnard!" John wanted to know where in Oxnard, as if somehow the next town over might still be too far to drive, depending. I told him it was 12 minutes away (made that up) and he approved so we left to check it out.

John doesn't like Oxnard. At all. The entire town. Because a lot of Hispanic people live there. That he ever seemed like a nice guy is part of the power of Gwennie. Somehow her love shined so brightly that it hid John's dark side. As we drove slowly down a side street, looking for the address, John announced that he felt like he was in Louisiana, and I knew that probably wasn't a good thing. But I didn't say, "They have less money in this neighborhood, John. It's not a crime or a disease." No, I kept my thoughts to myself because I was using this man to get the material thing I wanted and couldn't get for myself.  I felt slightly ill.

Joe, the wood owner, came out and we introduced ourselves. We walked through his backyard to where the lumber was stacked on the side. It'd been there a while, and some of it was in bad shape, but he wasn't selling it. John started disparaging the condition of the pieces and, feeling embarrassed, I said, "Let's remember the price here, John. Free." Joe smiled and nodded his head at me, obviously not all that bothered by anything John said. He told us we should go around to the other side and check the pieces there. We did, and they looked better to John. He went to move his truck and told me to start bringing pieces over to the front, and put them over the fence so he could load them into the pickup. Joe looked a little upset.

I grabbed a 2x6, all of which were from 8 to 10 feet long, and walked across the front yard and deposited it on the other side of the fence. Joe grabbed one, obviously helping me because John wasn't going to. John is 75 and he doesn't have the strength he once did. I wasn't surprised that he expected me to do the heavy lifting. But, boy, Joe sure was. Then I felt bad because Joe was giving us this wood for free, and now he felt obliged to help me move it, too. So I moved faster. Then I started to pick up a piece and it was two 2x6s nailed together. I didn't think that'd be a problem, and it was two in one trip, so I started back to the fence. Joe turned and saw me and said, "Whoa. You're buff!" Well, no, I'm not, but it was ever so nice to hear. I smiled sweetly. Poor Joe then felt obliged to carry two pieces at a time. All the while John just put one board into the truck at a time, and told me how many more we needed. Maybe you had to be there, but it was uncomfortable and funny at the same time.

I thanked Joe profusely, John ignored him, and we stopped at Home Depot again for a particular kind of screw or nail. I waited in the truck to guard the bounty. The pieces that had all been "not too good, but they'll do" were suddenly temptations for all the other men with pickup trucks who happened to be in the parking lot at the moment.

Back at the house, I unloaded the truck while John moved his power saw (it's on a table with wheels) from the garage to the patio. He had a long discussion with himself about how to build this thing. He'd convinced me that two, 6 foot by 3 foot shelves were the best idea. Now that he saw how much wood needed to be cut to size, one 6 foot by 6 foot shelf was suddenly the only way to go. I truly didn't care. Shelves. Get my stuff organized again, and not have one box crushing another. That's my goal. I waited for him to stop drawing on one of the boards, made comments like, "Um-hum," and "If I knew how to build this, I wouldn't need you to do it," and finally he announced how many of each size we needed. The final total was: a lot.

We had to cut 6 six foot long boards, 8 three foot long boards, two 78 inch boards, and 16 boards that were first cut to 16 inches, then in half to make them 2x3s. Anyone who's cut lumber needs no further explanation, but let me just say to the rest of those reading -- that's a lot of lifting, holding, bending to place in piles, and enough sawdust clean up a medium-sized oil spill. And John had me pick up each and every board. He measured, and he sawed. I'm not a fan of power tools, but I really would've preferred his job after a while. A 2x6 that's 10 feet long is not light.

Today was gorgeous, weather-wise. Sunny, in the mid-60s, with a nice breeze. My sunglasses kept slipping, so the glare blinded me as I held onto the lumber that John was sawing. My hands were sweating inside winter gloves (couldn't find my work gloves -- they're probably somewhere in the storage unit), and the freakin' wind kept blowing the sawdust into my face. I had my eyes closed a lot of the time -- while working around a 10" power radial saw -- but I breathed in way too much of the stuff. Why I didn't put on a mask is one of those mysteries of life, right up there with how I can think I'd know if someone is lying and then not recognize it until I'm hit over the head with the lie, and on my list to contemplate at some later date.

I lost count of how many times John asked me what we were cutting and how many we needed. I've known for some time that his memory is worrisome enough that he should go to a neurologist and be checked out. But it's not my place to suggest it. He had Gwen, and she didn't broach the subject with him. He has a wife, and either she doesn't see him enough to notice it or she doesn't want to say anything, either. I just answered him each time he asked, and suggested we finish the project tomorrow, after all the cutting was done. He was in favor of that, and said I could clean up. Could. As if doing me a favor. But, hey, I couldn't fit all that lumber in my Saturn and I don't know how to build this shelf. I'll know by the time we're done, but for now it's outside my skill set. I smiled and cleaned up.

The most annoying aspect of working with John was that I was doing most of the work and he was acting as if he was doing all the heavy lifting -- literally. He's practically preening over how he's building this thing for me, and how my life as I know it will be immeasurably improved because John deigned to help me with this problem. And I'm smiling and nodding and thanking him. Because I want the damn shelf.

This is a small thing. Unless something unforeseen happens, we should finish it tomorrow. I will buy him lunch (I've already given him $5. for gas), and refuse to let him pretend to help me with my stuff. He can deliver the shelf to my unit and go home, and I'll spend a couple hours moving things myself. It'll be over, though I imagine he'll want to bask in how wonderful he's been for some time. And that will bug me, but life is full of little annoyances that we have to deal with. I'd never do more than smile falsely or thank insincerely to get something, and after this experience I doubt I'll go this far again. It's dishonest. It's going on my permanent record, for sure. And I'd rather be too nice, too trusting, too generous, and ultimately too gullible, but be free of guile.

I can't imagine how women stay in marriages or relationships with men they are using for financial reasons. To stay with someone, most especially someone you loved and respected at some point but no longer do, because you want the nice house or the good school district for your son, must kill your soul. That's the lesson I learned, along with how to build a shelf.