Halloween (my feast day as Tim calls it) is here, so, of course, I've decorated the house to within an inch of its life.
I've got every table (and a few couches) shrouded in black, a coven of witches, a truckload of pumpkins, and a platoon of skeletons scattered throughout the entire downstairs, not to mention a (fake) black cat or two, and my Edgar Allen Poe raven perched on top of the grandfather clock in the living room overlooking the "cemetery" in the fireplace. Welcome to 13 13 Mockingbird Lane!
Every year, when the decorations come out, Tim comes home that night, looks around with utter disgust, shakes his head and proclaims,"Well, the Great Pumpkin has crapped all over here again." It's our own little Hallmark moment.
And every year, I add or replace something to make it better or creepier (okay, partly to make it better, partly to mess with Tim's mind). And mostly, the reaction to each new addition is a grunt or roll of the eyes and a quick mental calculation of how many more days are left in the Halloween season. (Although, with the stores starting it earlier and earlier each year, I think I may actually have seen him choke back a sob the last year or two.)
This year though, I got a little more reaction than usual. Not once, but twice.
About a month ago, I was at the craft store where they were having a sale on decorative scarecrows. Perfect. The ones in my outdoor display (you didn't seriously think I limited myself to indoors, did you?) were several years old and starting to look like they had tangled with the Wicked Witch's flying monkeys and lost (don't you just hate it when that happens?). Since we were having the work done in the basement, and I couldn't get to my Halloween boxes, I decided to store them temporarily in the dining room on the floor. Laying them down, one on top of the other, out of sight, I put them out of my mind.
About three evenings later, Tim was on the phone and, as is his habit, wandering around the house while talking. The next thing I knew, he was standing next to me demanding to know what I thought I was doing. (I believe my answer was, "Um. The dishes?" with just the right touch of sarcasm.)
After an equally sarcastic response back, which I can't repeat here, he motioned to the dining room and babbled something about "bodies". Apparently, he had entered the darkened room and practically stumbled over my life size (did I forget to mention that?) scarecrows, which gave him quite a start and the person on the other end of the phone a punctured eardrum. ( What exactly does he think I do when he's not here? Perhaps he believed I took Alicia's comment about Arsenic and Old Lace seriously, and decided to start serving elderly men a glass of Elderberry wine in the afternoons.)
Anyway, after his heart rate returned to normal, and I decided to be amused rather than offended (good to know what your spouse of twenty years thinks you are capable of), we had a good laugh. And I got another one just last week.
This time, it was a spider that did him in. While out looking for more pumpkins (You can never have too many big, orange vegetables hanging around. Check with Martha Stewart. Really.) I came across these large metal spiders attached to thin chains for hanging. And they were on sale. Perfect. Three spiders, three lamps with shades just crying out for decorations in the living room. It was destiny.
A few hours later, I happened to be standing in the kitchen when Tim walked through the front door, and, out of the corner of his eye saw one of my new decorations hanging from the lamp about a foot to his left. With a leap that would have done Barishnikov proud, and the reflexes of a trained athlete, he started to swing his briefcase toward the lamp.
It was like watching one of those movies where they put everything in slow motion and you can hear someone (me) shouting, "Noooooooo!", but you know what the disastrous end result is going to be anyway.
Thankfully, he realized that the spider was only a decoration while his assault weapon was still a few inches away from my Waterford lamp and managed to pull back at the last minute(perhaps a bit of an overreaction?). This time, it was my heart rate that needed to return to normal.
Maybe next year, I'll stick with things that are a little less life-like for both our sakes.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
I See Naked People
And speaking of things you don't need to see....
Tim has an uncanny ability to see naked people (and find great parking spaces, though fortunately for our car, not at the same time.)
This talent revealed itself early in our marriage when he was in the laundry room of our first apartment building. A young woman wearing a tube top (clearly, we have been married a long time) was standing opposite him shaking her laundry out of its bag and into the washer...a little too vigorously. On about the third shake, the final bit of laundry dropped down, and so did her top.
This sighting was followed a few months later by a rooftop visit to avoid the intense heat in our apartment due to brainless management and a prolonged summer. While trying to catch a breeze, Tim also caught a good look at a guy in his apartment trying to beat the heat another way (apparently, he didn't take into consideration the L-shape of the building or lack of shades when he came up with this little brainstorm).
Someone else who didn't consider building shape was the couple who decided to sleep out on the balcony, naked, because, since the guy had roommates, doing so in his room might have proved embarrassing. (We actually happened to know this guy, so Tim took great delight in calling down and waking them up, then watching the ensuing scramble.)
After we moved out of the apparent nudist colony we were living in, the sightings came less frequently, but they did not stop.
While out at dinner one night, Tim's chair faced a window, which faced an apartment building, which contained a naked couple who owned sheer curtains, but no shades. Needless to say, the woman playing the piano was no competition for Tim's attention compared to the floor show across the way.
And speaking of shows, we used to have neighbors across the street who, well, provided a nightly one. They were a free-spirited couple that, despite living there a few years, still didn't have shades (have none of these people ever heard of Next Day Blinds?!? How about an old sheet or even wax paper? This isn't rocket science!). So when Tim would be coming in late from work, there was a strong possibility that he would catch the second show. (Rated PG 13--according to the neighbors on either side, the late show had an R rating at least)
And then there are the foreign naked people....
Like the time we were on a cruise and mistakenly ended up on a clothing optional beach (I guess the huge billboard behind our chairs should have clued us in, but somehow we missed it and were surprised by all the flesh-colored bathing suits until we realized they were birthday suits.)
Or the time in Paris when we were sitting at a little cafe on the left bank and a guy staying at the small hotel on the opposite corner decided to treat everyone to a strip show from his balcony (He had obviously had too much to drink, and we had not had nearly enough.). There are definitely some things better left to the imagination, like the amount of body waxing someone has had done.)
But, at the beach in Cannes, the naked people got their ultimate revenge on Tim.
It wasn't the lady selling bathing suits on the beach who, in her eagerness to display her wares for Tim, displayed, well, her wares for Tim when she whipped off one suit to put on another.
And it certainly wasn't the eighteen year old Sports Illustrated model who used the beach shower (topless, of course) to wash off all that pesky, clinging sand about three feet from his chair.
No, it was the last day when we were out on the pier and an older woman (and by older, I mean somewhere between ninety and death) was given the chair directly in front of Tim. After setting down her bag, she nonchalantly removed her turquoise one-piece to reveal a bright yellow thong!
As it this was not enough, she then proceeded to arrange her chair, towel, etc. for a good fifteen minutes (or at least until Tim was uncontrollably weeping, "Make it stop!").
Meanwhile, his sisters and I , who had been forced to listen to him extol the virtues of the eighteen year old the previous night at dinner (FYI, forty-something women do not want to hear how, at eighteen, everything is "in place") couldn't have been more pleased with his punishment.
Finally, here was incontrovertible proof that God was on my side.
Tim has an uncanny ability to see naked people (and find great parking spaces, though fortunately for our car, not at the same time.)
This talent revealed itself early in our marriage when he was in the laundry room of our first apartment building. A young woman wearing a tube top (clearly, we have been married a long time) was standing opposite him shaking her laundry out of its bag and into the washer...a little too vigorously. On about the third shake, the final bit of laundry dropped down, and so did her top.
This sighting was followed a few months later by a rooftop visit to avoid the intense heat in our apartment due to brainless management and a prolonged summer. While trying to catch a breeze, Tim also caught a good look at a guy in his apartment trying to beat the heat another way (apparently, he didn't take into consideration the L-shape of the building or lack of shades when he came up with this little brainstorm).
Someone else who didn't consider building shape was the couple who decided to sleep out on the balcony, naked, because, since the guy had roommates, doing so in his room might have proved embarrassing. (We actually happened to know this guy, so Tim took great delight in calling down and waking them up, then watching the ensuing scramble.)
After we moved out of the apparent nudist colony we were living in, the sightings came less frequently, but they did not stop.
While out at dinner one night, Tim's chair faced a window, which faced an apartment building, which contained a naked couple who owned sheer curtains, but no shades. Needless to say, the woman playing the piano was no competition for Tim's attention compared to the floor show across the way.
And speaking of shows, we used to have neighbors across the street who, well, provided a nightly one. They were a free-spirited couple that, despite living there a few years, still didn't have shades (have none of these people ever heard of Next Day Blinds?!? How about an old sheet or even wax paper? This isn't rocket science!). So when Tim would be coming in late from work, there was a strong possibility that he would catch the second show. (Rated PG 13--according to the neighbors on either side, the late show had an R rating at least)
And then there are the foreign naked people....
Like the time we were on a cruise and mistakenly ended up on a clothing optional beach (I guess the huge billboard behind our chairs should have clued us in, but somehow we missed it and were surprised by all the flesh-colored bathing suits until we realized they were birthday suits.)
Or the time in Paris when we were sitting at a little cafe on the left bank and a guy staying at the small hotel on the opposite corner decided to treat everyone to a strip show from his balcony (He had obviously had too much to drink, and we had not had nearly enough.). There are definitely some things better left to the imagination, like the amount of body waxing someone has had done.)
But, at the beach in Cannes, the naked people got their ultimate revenge on Tim.
It wasn't the lady selling bathing suits on the beach who, in her eagerness to display her wares for Tim, displayed, well, her wares for Tim when she whipped off one suit to put on another.
And it certainly wasn't the eighteen year old Sports Illustrated model who used the beach shower (topless, of course) to wash off all that pesky, clinging sand about three feet from his chair.
No, it was the last day when we were out on the pier and an older woman (and by older, I mean somewhere between ninety and death) was given the chair directly in front of Tim. After setting down her bag, she nonchalantly removed her turquoise one-piece to reveal a bright yellow thong!
As it this was not enough, she then proceeded to arrange her chair, towel, etc. for a good fifteen minutes (or at least until Tim was uncontrollably weeping, "Make it stop!").
Meanwhile, his sisters and I , who had been forced to listen to him extol the virtues of the eighteen year old the previous night at dinner (FYI, forty-something women do not want to hear how, at eighteen, everything is "in place") couldn't have been more pleased with his punishment.
Finally, here was incontrovertible proof that God was on my side.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Love is in the Air
It must be the unusually warm weather we've been having lately, but I have been seeing a lot more of some people than I ever wanted to see.
Walking my sister-in-law's dog one afternoon (Murray), I decided to take the path through the park. As we approached from the sidewalk on the other side of the batting cages, I spotted a little, white dog sitting by a bench off the path.
As we got closer, I realized there was a guy kneeling on the bench with his back to me. Odd. Why would someone kneel on the bench? Wait a minute...why did he have four legs, two facing forward and two facing backward?
Before this little fact completely registered, the guy (more like sixteen year old kid) became alerted to our approach and sprang up off the bench (and the sixteen year old girl under him) like an Olympic gymnast off a pommel horse. (His technique was a little sloppy, but I gave him a 9.5 for the dismount overall.)
Clothing was pushed and pulled frantically back into place, buttons were buttoned, zippers were zipped...it was like watching the lightening round of some adult game show from Sweden.
Since it was too late to turn around, I decided to pretend I hadn't seen anything and tried to pass them without making eye contact.
I would have made it too, if the dog (naturally, a female) hadn't trotted on over to greet Murray, who is fixed (or broken as Tim likes to say) and try to show him what had been going on...firsthand.
It was not pretty, and I'm not sure whose face was reddest(and I'm including Murray. Who knew dogs could look that shocked?) by the time we, er, separated them.
Several nights later, Tim, Rose (his sister) and I went out to dinner at a little Italian place. Since it was such a nice night, we were seated on the patio right in front of the window at one end of the bar.
We had just ordered when Rose began choking on her iced tea and gesturing toward the bar where a couple sat with their backs to us. (Actually, come to think of it, the expression on her face was pretty close to the one on Murray's when little Fifi decided to show him what he was missing.)
Tim and I turned to see the guy (not sixteen) rubbing the woman's back...and backside. Oh Goody. Dinner theater.
As if it couldn't get worse, he suddenly reached up and unscrewed the light above them obviously thinking the darkness would conceal his next move (which it did from everybody but us unfortunately).
His hand slowly began an upward journey, taking her shirt with it, while her hand disappeared somewhere I don't even want to think about!
Part of me couldn't tear my eyes away, like when you see a horrible accident and you know you shouldn't slow down and stare, but you just can't help yourself. And the other part of me wanted to throw my hands up in front of my face and shriek, "My eyes. My eyes!"
At any rate, ten minutes later, we had learned three things: 1. her bra and panties matched, 2. art may only imitate real life, but it sure is better looking on HBO with George Clooney and Julia Roberts, and 3. some people are not capable of being embarrassed...even when they should be.
They say that things come in threes, and sure enough, when I was walking Murray again this afternoon, there it was...young love on the same park bench.
This time, I decided to turn around and head directly back to the safety of Rose's apartment and Dr. Phil. With any luck, maybe the topic on his show would be overcoming severe trauma.
Walking my sister-in-law's dog one afternoon (Murray), I decided to take the path through the park. As we approached from the sidewalk on the other side of the batting cages, I spotted a little, white dog sitting by a bench off the path.
As we got closer, I realized there was a guy kneeling on the bench with his back to me. Odd. Why would someone kneel on the bench? Wait a minute...why did he have four legs, two facing forward and two facing backward?
Before this little fact completely registered, the guy (more like sixteen year old kid) became alerted to our approach and sprang up off the bench (and the sixteen year old girl under him) like an Olympic gymnast off a pommel horse. (His technique was a little sloppy, but I gave him a 9.5 for the dismount overall.)
Clothing was pushed and pulled frantically back into place, buttons were buttoned, zippers were zipped...it was like watching the lightening round of some adult game show from Sweden.
Since it was too late to turn around, I decided to pretend I hadn't seen anything and tried to pass them without making eye contact.
I would have made it too, if the dog (naturally, a female) hadn't trotted on over to greet Murray, who is fixed (or broken as Tim likes to say) and try to show him what had been going on...firsthand.
It was not pretty, and I'm not sure whose face was reddest(and I'm including Murray. Who knew dogs could look that shocked?) by the time we, er, separated them.
Several nights later, Tim, Rose (his sister) and I went out to dinner at a little Italian place. Since it was such a nice night, we were seated on the patio right in front of the window at one end of the bar.
We had just ordered when Rose began choking on her iced tea and gesturing toward the bar where a couple sat with their backs to us. (Actually, come to think of it, the expression on her face was pretty close to the one on Murray's when little Fifi decided to show him what he was missing.)
Tim and I turned to see the guy (not sixteen) rubbing the woman's back...and backside. Oh Goody. Dinner theater.
As if it couldn't get worse, he suddenly reached up and unscrewed the light above them obviously thinking the darkness would conceal his next move (which it did from everybody but us unfortunately).
His hand slowly began an upward journey, taking her shirt with it, while her hand disappeared somewhere I don't even want to think about!
Part of me couldn't tear my eyes away, like when you see a horrible accident and you know you shouldn't slow down and stare, but you just can't help yourself. And the other part of me wanted to throw my hands up in front of my face and shriek, "My eyes. My eyes!"
At any rate, ten minutes later, we had learned three things: 1. her bra and panties matched, 2. art may only imitate real life, but it sure is better looking on HBO with George Clooney and Julia Roberts, and 3. some people are not capable of being embarrassed...even when they should be.
They say that things come in threes, and sure enough, when I was walking Murray again this afternoon, there it was...young love on the same park bench.
This time, I decided to turn around and head directly back to the safety of Rose's apartment and Dr. Phil. With any luck, maybe the topic on his show would be overcoming severe trauma.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Adventures at Home Depot
Actually, anonymous (Pat), I already thought of Home Depot......
After looking at more tile than I ever really wanted to see in my lifetime (do they really need twenty shades of white?), I decided to check out Home Depot, which turned out to be half the price, but ten times the aggravation (who would have thought that was possible?).
Once there, I headed right for the tile section where I quickly selected my tile (brown). Now, I just needed some help with how many boxes...Hmmm. Except for three other do-it-yourselfers, who were also wandering around with dazed looks on their faces, there was no one to help.
After roaming around the area for a bit, I finally spotted two guys in orange vests who were next door in the kitchen section, chatting about football. Barely pausing in their discussion to acknowledge my presence, they told me that they didn't know anything about tile (why would anyone working in the kitchen section know anything about tile?) and told me to go see the woman at the desk up in the carpeting department. Of course...carpeting, tiles, it's all the same thing. Why didn't I think of that myself?
Mildly irked, I approached the desk where there was indeed a woman...sitting and eating popcorn with another guy...who saw me coming and called out, "I'm with someone. I can't help you."
Okaaaay. Biting back the dozen or so things I really wanted to say, I asked her if there was someone else who might be able to (like, I don't know, and employee who actually showed up to work? -- or maybe I should have offered to go get the butter and find better seats before the movie started).
Obviously not pleased that I wouldn't just go away (I think the folded arms, narrowed eyes, flaring nostrils and tapping foot gave her a clue), she reluctantly paged someone to meet me back in the tile section.
Ten minutes of mentally composing my speech for the store manager later, a guy wandered back, looked around and started to leave. The fool. Did he think he could escape that easily? After practically pinning him to the shelves with my cart to prevent his escape, he admitted that he had been sent by the woman, but told that it was a guy that needed help.
A guy !!! Okay, the store manager was definitely hearing about this. By the way, he worked in lighting, so he knew nothing about tile either, and didn't really know why she paged him. Oh, and good luck finding the store manager. He personally hadn't seen him since he'd been hired years ago. As a matter of fact, most of the employees were sure that the manager was really only an urban myth.
After talking me down from the ceiling, he told me that, despite everything, he would help me, if I didn't mind the fact that he had no clue what he was doing. Or, he could page someone else.... Fearing that my nerves couldn't take it, and knowing that the nearest Lowes was in the next state, I agreed to let him try.
Twenty minutes of the most excruciatingly convoluted calculations followed. Einstein did less figuring to come up with his theory of relativity. But at last I had eight boxes of tile loaded into my cart and the promise that I could return any unused portion (like that was worth anything!). To say the guy sprinted away from me down the aisle would be to underplay how fast he actually was going, but if there had been an Olympic scout in the area.......
Next came the paint. Again, the color was selected in mere minutes, but again, no one was at the paint desk. Hmmm. Where would I go for paint? The garden department perhaps? How about Hardware? By now, my patience had completely evaporated (okay, so it had done so half an hour earlier), and I was not in the mood to try and figure out their little system. Grabbing a cashier (I figured they were easy prey being trapped behind the register), I growled, "Help in paint. Now!"
Giving me the same look you see in horror movies when someone realizes that there actually are such things as vampires and werewolves (right before they get their throat torn out), the girl backed away and paged someone. This time, however, I stayed with her until the person showed up.
Returning to the paint department, I was hailed as a hero by the other poor souls waiting there. Even at the register a few minutes later, I had people asking me how long it had taken me to accomplish my mission. That they were not surprised when I replied that I had been twenty years old when I came there pretty much sums up the Home Depot experience.
So, yes, Pat. I went to Home Depot, and it was a completely different experience than I had at the design center (which, by the way, is also a Home Depot). Surprise!
After looking at more tile than I ever really wanted to see in my lifetime (do they really need twenty shades of white?), I decided to check out Home Depot, which turned out to be half the price, but ten times the aggravation (who would have thought that was possible?).
Once there, I headed right for the tile section where I quickly selected my tile (brown). Now, I just needed some help with how many boxes...Hmmm. Except for three other do-it-yourselfers, who were also wandering around with dazed looks on their faces, there was no one to help.
After roaming around the area for a bit, I finally spotted two guys in orange vests who were next door in the kitchen section, chatting about football. Barely pausing in their discussion to acknowledge my presence, they told me that they didn't know anything about tile (why would anyone working in the kitchen section know anything about tile?) and told me to go see the woman at the desk up in the carpeting department. Of course...carpeting, tiles, it's all the same thing. Why didn't I think of that myself?
Mildly irked, I approached the desk where there was indeed a woman...sitting and eating popcorn with another guy...who saw me coming and called out, "I'm with someone. I can't help you."
Okaaaay. Biting back the dozen or so things I really wanted to say, I asked her if there was someone else who might be able to (like, I don't know, and employee who actually showed up to work? -- or maybe I should have offered to go get the butter and find better seats before the movie started).
Obviously not pleased that I wouldn't just go away (I think the folded arms, narrowed eyes, flaring nostrils and tapping foot gave her a clue), she reluctantly paged someone to meet me back in the tile section.
Ten minutes of mentally composing my speech for the store manager later, a guy wandered back, looked around and started to leave. The fool. Did he think he could escape that easily? After practically pinning him to the shelves with my cart to prevent his escape, he admitted that he had been sent by the woman, but told that it was a guy that needed help.
A guy !!! Okay, the store manager was definitely hearing about this. By the way, he worked in lighting, so he knew nothing about tile either, and didn't really know why she paged him. Oh, and good luck finding the store manager. He personally hadn't seen him since he'd been hired years ago. As a matter of fact, most of the employees were sure that the manager was really only an urban myth.
After talking me down from the ceiling, he told me that, despite everything, he would help me, if I didn't mind the fact that he had no clue what he was doing. Or, he could page someone else.... Fearing that my nerves couldn't take it, and knowing that the nearest Lowes was in the next state, I agreed to let him try.
Twenty minutes of the most excruciatingly convoluted calculations followed. Einstein did less figuring to come up with his theory of relativity. But at last I had eight boxes of tile loaded into my cart and the promise that I could return any unused portion (like that was worth anything!). To say the guy sprinted away from me down the aisle would be to underplay how fast he actually was going, but if there had been an Olympic scout in the area.......
Next came the paint. Again, the color was selected in mere minutes, but again, no one was at the paint desk. Hmmm. Where would I go for paint? The garden department perhaps? How about Hardware? By now, my patience had completely evaporated (okay, so it had done so half an hour earlier), and I was not in the mood to try and figure out their little system. Grabbing a cashier (I figured they were easy prey being trapped behind the register), I growled, "Help in paint. Now!"
Giving me the same look you see in horror movies when someone realizes that there actually are such things as vampires and werewolves (right before they get their throat torn out), the girl backed away and paged someone. This time, however, I stayed with her until the person showed up.
Returning to the paint department, I was hailed as a hero by the other poor souls waiting there. Even at the register a few minutes later, I had people asking me how long it had taken me to accomplish my mission. That they were not surprised when I replied that I had been twenty years old when I came there pretty much sums up the Home Depot experience.
So, yes, Pat. I went to Home Depot, and it was a completely different experience than I had at the design center (which, by the way, is also a Home Depot). Surprise!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Devil is in the Details
So Plan C (or B.5) was finally underway...sort of.
We had decided where the walls and the door would be (unfortunately, they were two separate things) so all that was left now was the details: color of paint, tiles for the floor, color of grout. The little things that cause me to break out in hives and have sleepless nights.
First things first...the tile for the floor and the cabinets. For that, I paid a visit to a home design center. And this is where my migraine began.
Foolishly, I imagined that designing the shape of the actual room and placement of the door had been the hard part. Not even close. It was nothing compared to the nightmare that awaited me here.
The first challenge was getting the right kind of cabinets. It started out innocuously enough. I explained what I wanted to the woman at the custom cabinet desk (mostly because it was the first desk I saw that was being manned). Twice. Finally, she seemed to get a handle on what I was saying...and referred me to the kitchen department.
Saleslady: So you are designing a kitchen.
Me: Not exactly a kitchen. A small basement room with our spare refrigerator.
SL: And what else?
Me: Nothing. I just need some cabinets and shelves on either side for storage.
SL: So it's a kitchen.
Me: Okay.
SL: What else is there besides the fridge? What is the purpose of the room?
Me: To hold the spare fridge and extra dishes.
SL: But what are you using the room for?
Me: Nothing specific. It's just a room for the fridge and extra dishes.
SL: But what will you be doing in the room?
Me: I don't know. Walking through it. Getting stuff out of the fridge. Storing extra dishes.
SL: So, it's not really a kitchen.
Me: No. Again, it's just a small room for the extra fridge and storage.
SL: So the purpose of the room is what? What will you be doing in it?
Wait. Was I Abbot or Costello here? Which one of us was supposed to say, "third base!"?
After a few more minutes of this routine, it was decided that what I really needed was a different department (or at least a different sales associate), so I was taken back over to the custom cabinet desk. Uh oh. This didn't look good.
Original Saleslady: So what is the purpose of this room?
I was not going through this again. Gritting my teeth(or what was left of them after grinding them for the last fifteen minutes), I explained in words of one syllable that there was no purpose to the room. It was not a kitchen, a bathroom, a mudroom, a bedroom, a sundeck, a living room or a dining room. I was building a room with no definite purpose, or use, except to hide the junk that was cluttering the rest of my basement, just for the fun of it. No one, at any time, in the history of the world, would be in this room for any reason whatsoever. Forget the fridge, forget the dishes, forget everything except that I wanted cabinets and shelves against one wall. Now, were they going to be able to help me or should I give the bathroom department a shot at raising my blood pressure next?
SL: Oh, so you just want cabinets and shelves for storage, with your fridge in the middle. Like a wall unit or built-ins in a kitchen?
Me: Yes! (finally)
SL: Oh, we can't do that here. I have to send someone out to your house to measure and draw up a plan. How is next Monday? You can choose the wood and the finish from the samples he'll bring. And you are all here because...???
Okay, I was not going to leap across the desk and strangle her no matter how badly I wanted to. Besides, I could almost hear how it would play out in court: But what was the purpose of the room? I would end up in jail for sure after hurdling the table to get to the judge.
Mentally counting to one thousand (ten was not nearly enough), and walking around the store to try and lower my blood pressure to the medium risk stroke range, I headed over to the tile section.
Looking at the eight million styles, colors and types, I went to the desk to ask for some help (apparently, I hadn't learned my lesson. Either that, or I was a glutton for punishment). Once again, it started off fine. The guy there explained that there were many different types of tiles: porcelain, ceramic, terra cotta. Or maybe what I really wanted was a wood floor. It all depended on the purpose of the room........
We had decided where the walls and the door would be (unfortunately, they were two separate things) so all that was left now was the details: color of paint, tiles for the floor, color of grout. The little things that cause me to break out in hives and have sleepless nights.
First things first...the tile for the floor and the cabinets. For that, I paid a visit to a home design center. And this is where my migraine began.
Foolishly, I imagined that designing the shape of the actual room and placement of the door had been the hard part. Not even close. It was nothing compared to the nightmare that awaited me here.
The first challenge was getting the right kind of cabinets. It started out innocuously enough. I explained what I wanted to the woman at the custom cabinet desk (mostly because it was the first desk I saw that was being manned). Twice. Finally, she seemed to get a handle on what I was saying...and referred me to the kitchen department.
Saleslady: So you are designing a kitchen.
Me: Not exactly a kitchen. A small basement room with our spare refrigerator.
SL: And what else?
Me: Nothing. I just need some cabinets and shelves on either side for storage.
SL: So it's a kitchen.
Me: Okay.
SL: What else is there besides the fridge? What is the purpose of the room?
Me: To hold the spare fridge and extra dishes.
SL: But what are you using the room for?
Me: Nothing specific. It's just a room for the fridge and extra dishes.
SL: But what will you be doing in the room?
Me: I don't know. Walking through it. Getting stuff out of the fridge. Storing extra dishes.
SL: So, it's not really a kitchen.
Me: No. Again, it's just a small room for the extra fridge and storage.
SL: So the purpose of the room is what? What will you be doing in it?
Wait. Was I Abbot or Costello here? Which one of us was supposed to say, "third base!"?
After a few more minutes of this routine, it was decided that what I really needed was a different department (or at least a different sales associate), so I was taken back over to the custom cabinet desk. Uh oh. This didn't look good.
Original Saleslady: So what is the purpose of this room?
I was not going through this again. Gritting my teeth(or what was left of them after grinding them for the last fifteen minutes), I explained in words of one syllable that there was no purpose to the room. It was not a kitchen, a bathroom, a mudroom, a bedroom, a sundeck, a living room or a dining room. I was building a room with no definite purpose, or use, except to hide the junk that was cluttering the rest of my basement, just for the fun of it. No one, at any time, in the history of the world, would be in this room for any reason whatsoever. Forget the fridge, forget the dishes, forget everything except that I wanted cabinets and shelves against one wall. Now, were they going to be able to help me or should I give the bathroom department a shot at raising my blood pressure next?
SL: Oh, so you just want cabinets and shelves for storage, with your fridge in the middle. Like a wall unit or built-ins in a kitchen?
Me: Yes! (finally)
SL: Oh, we can't do that here. I have to send someone out to your house to measure and draw up a plan. How is next Monday? You can choose the wood and the finish from the samples he'll bring. And you are all here because...???
Okay, I was not going to leap across the desk and strangle her no matter how badly I wanted to. Besides, I could almost hear how it would play out in court: But what was the purpose of the room? I would end up in jail for sure after hurdling the table to get to the judge.
Mentally counting to one thousand (ten was not nearly enough), and walking around the store to try and lower my blood pressure to the medium risk stroke range, I headed over to the tile section.
Looking at the eight million styles, colors and types, I went to the desk to ask for some help (apparently, I hadn't learned my lesson. Either that, or I was a glutton for punishment). Once again, it started off fine. The guy there explained that there were many different types of tiles: porcelain, ceramic, terra cotta. Or maybe what I really wanted was a wood floor. It all depended on the purpose of the room........
Friday, October 12, 2007
Plan B
Alicia, thanks for sacrificing, I mean offering John, but I've already moved on to Plan B, which went something like this.....
How about if we close off the front part of the basement near the stairs and make a room with our second refrigerator, some cabinets, and a few shelves. Oh, and we'll need a door so that we can access the rest of the basement. Much simpler, and we don't have to worry about disturbing whatever is living behind wall number one.
It would be a small room, and no pool table, but hey, it would be better than nothing. It was suggested by Tim (actually,he begged) that perhaps we should just put bigger shelves or cabinets up all around the basement and be done with it, but this was my project, and I wanted to make it as complicated as possible. Anyway, his plan did not take into account the many oversize floral arrangements, plant stands, Christmas trees(two), styrofoam cemetery and 6ft. Halloween coffin (it's only cardboard and nobody is actually in it...yet). No, all of this truly deserved a room of its own.
I sat down with pen and paper and began to draw. And then inspiration struck. Since it was such a small room, it seemed a shame to take up almost an entire wall with a door. It would totally throw off the feng shui. There would be too much yin and not enough yang. How about...if the door....was hidden?! Oh yeah. One side of the shelves could actually be built on the front of the door with a hidden latch, and then...Abbracadabbra!..it would swing open to reveal a secret room (filled with junk, yes, but that's beside the point)!
Excited,I spent the next few days measuring and designing and annoying everyone I know with detailed (and animated) explanations (I suspect Tim was trying to get a Ritalin prescription filled behind my back). Design school? Architecture degree? Those were for people without vision. I was beyond all of that. I was a creative genius! (Besides, I saw this done once in a house we visited, so I know it was possible.)
Pleased with myself and the clever use of space (could my own show on HGTV be far off?), I presented my grand plan to the man who would make it all happen ( a.k.a. not Tim).
Once again, I got a lot of head shaking (but at least there wasn't a flashlight involved this time, so I counted it as progress), and long suffering looks. Yes (sigh, eye roll), it was possible, but the door would have to be bigger and thicker than standard size to hold the weight of the shelves and the God-only-knows-what that I might decide to put on them.
Oh, and it would have to open inward because of the air duct that was lower than the rest of the ceiling, and the shelves couldn't be too deep because, otherwise, they would block the opening, and the door could only open to the left because of a support pole that was in the way, and then we couldn't have shelves behind it...and...and....
I don't know how or when, but Tim had obviously gotten to him.
Had Frank Lloyd Wright had this much difficulty when he designed Falling Waters? Had someone moaned and groaned at Thomas Jefferson when he designed all the nifty little devices at Monticello?
After several more attempts to work out my brilliant plan, I had to admit defeat and settle for a regular old set of shelves and a normal, unimaginative door. Clearly, whoever had designed the basement sixty years ago had not taken into consideration any future plans for having it featured in Architectural Digest.
So, Plan C is was. Now to choose the tile, paint and lights...
How about if we close off the front part of the basement near the stairs and make a room with our second refrigerator, some cabinets, and a few shelves. Oh, and we'll need a door so that we can access the rest of the basement. Much simpler, and we don't have to worry about disturbing whatever is living behind wall number one.
It would be a small room, and no pool table, but hey, it would be better than nothing. It was suggested by Tim (actually,he begged) that perhaps we should just put bigger shelves or cabinets up all around the basement and be done with it, but this was my project, and I wanted to make it as complicated as possible. Anyway, his plan did not take into account the many oversize floral arrangements, plant stands, Christmas trees(two), styrofoam cemetery and 6ft. Halloween coffin (it's only cardboard and nobody is actually in it...yet). No, all of this truly deserved a room of its own.
I sat down with pen and paper and began to draw. And then inspiration struck. Since it was such a small room, it seemed a shame to take up almost an entire wall with a door. It would totally throw off the feng shui. There would be too much yin and not enough yang. How about...if the door....was hidden?! Oh yeah. One side of the shelves could actually be built on the front of the door with a hidden latch, and then...Abbracadabbra!..it would swing open to reveal a secret room (filled with junk, yes, but that's beside the point)!
Excited,I spent the next few days measuring and designing and annoying everyone I know with detailed (and animated) explanations (I suspect Tim was trying to get a Ritalin prescription filled behind my back). Design school? Architecture degree? Those were for people without vision. I was beyond all of that. I was a creative genius! (Besides, I saw this done once in a house we visited, so I know it was possible.)
Pleased with myself and the clever use of space (could my own show on HGTV be far off?), I presented my grand plan to the man who would make it all happen ( a.k.a. not Tim).
Once again, I got a lot of head shaking (but at least there wasn't a flashlight involved this time, so I counted it as progress), and long suffering looks. Yes (sigh, eye roll), it was possible, but the door would have to be bigger and thicker than standard size to hold the weight of the shelves and the God-only-knows-what that I might decide to put on them.
Oh, and it would have to open inward because of the air duct that was lower than the rest of the ceiling, and the shelves couldn't be too deep because, otherwise, they would block the opening, and the door could only open to the left because of a support pole that was in the way, and then we couldn't have shelves behind it...and...and....
I don't know how or when, but Tim had obviously gotten to him.
Had Frank Lloyd Wright had this much difficulty when he designed Falling Waters? Had someone moaned and groaned at Thomas Jefferson when he designed all the nifty little devices at Monticello?
After several more attempts to work out my brilliant plan, I had to admit defeat and settle for a regular old set of shelves and a normal, unimaginative door. Clearly, whoever had designed the basement sixty years ago had not taken into consideration any future plans for having it featured in Architectural Digest.
So, Plan C is was. Now to choose the tile, paint and lights...
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
The Big Plan
I have decided yo have some work done in our basement. Presently, it looks like a prison cell for holiday decorations gone bad. The floor is gray concrete, the walls white cinder block with a few narrow shelves and box after box of holiday creations (orange and black for Halloween, red and green for Christmas - yes, there is an order to my chaos) stacked two deep along almost every wall.
There are two small transom windows set up high which offer a lovely view of the side yard with its scorched grass. They have been painted shut for about thirty years and do have bars across them (courtesy of the alarm company). Occasionally, we get those jumping crickets, but fortunately, the spiders that live down there seem to keep that population under control.
Since our last big project was two years ago and the memories have begun to fade (well, not so much fade as been repressed) I decided it was time to tackle the final frontier, the only space in the house that we haven't redone (which is proof that I have waaaay too much time on my hands and need to get a real job!).
I say "I" because Tim is having no part of this. Just the mention of tile, paint, and lighting fixtures is enough to have his eyes glazing over. Talk about placement of a door, and he is headed for the nearest one as though the house were on fire. Whenever I do manage to corner him and ask his opinion on anything, I get the same answer every time: Let's move. It will be less aggravation!!!
And so, left to my own devices, I made a plan, and a darn fine one it was too, if I do say so myself.
Two years ago, one of the guys who was running some wire in the crawlspace behind the shelves happened to mention that there was actually an entire room back there that was filled with dirt and had never been dug out. This got me to thinking (thinking, obsessing, potato, potauto). What if we broke through the wall and put all the junk into this other room? Then, we could finish off the basement and have a really neat rec room with a bar and maybe a pool table (or at least that is what I told Tim. I was actually thinking more along the lines of a chick room, but, hey, all's fair in love and home design).
Naturally, I tried to talk Tim into crawling around back there and scoping it out for me, but he had some silly objection to snakes and undead, so the most I could do was get him to shine a flashlight around through the three foot opening and mutter, "Let's move." Not helpful.
When my father came for a visit, I tried to coax him to take a look-see but, once again, there was a lot of flashlight waving and head shaking, but no actual progress on determining the dimensions of the mystery room. Since he is over seventy, I let him slide on this out of the goodness of my heart.
Finally, I got the guy who had done our bathroom to come out to the house and take a look. At last, here was someone who would brave the world of the unknown! Wrong again. I had a brief moment of hope when he actually stuck his head through the opening, but then the flashlight came out and well...
He did, however, determine that it was big enough to hold all my stuff, and said he could dig out the room and cut through the wall to make a door. At least that is what he told me.
His face and tone of voice told another story. They clearly said, "Lady, you are insane. Do you know how much work it would be to haul all of that dirt out, bucket by bucket and pass it through those windows by hand???? Not to mention cutting through a cinder block wall, pouring a concrete floor, and don't even get me started on the possibility that the foundation doesn't go down further than three feet over there and we'd need to build a retaining wall!!!
Okay, so maybe this wasn't the best way to go. Perhaps it was time to come up with Plan B
There are two small transom windows set up high which offer a lovely view of the side yard with its scorched grass. They have been painted shut for about thirty years and do have bars across them (courtesy of the alarm company). Occasionally, we get those jumping crickets, but fortunately, the spiders that live down there seem to keep that population under control.
Since our last big project was two years ago and the memories have begun to fade (well, not so much fade as been repressed) I decided it was time to tackle the final frontier, the only space in the house that we haven't redone (which is proof that I have waaaay too much time on my hands and need to get a real job!).
I say "I" because Tim is having no part of this. Just the mention of tile, paint, and lighting fixtures is enough to have his eyes glazing over. Talk about placement of a door, and he is headed for the nearest one as though the house were on fire. Whenever I do manage to corner him and ask his opinion on anything, I get the same answer every time: Let's move. It will be less aggravation!!!
And so, left to my own devices, I made a plan, and a darn fine one it was too, if I do say so myself.
Two years ago, one of the guys who was running some wire in the crawlspace behind the shelves happened to mention that there was actually an entire room back there that was filled with dirt and had never been dug out. This got me to thinking (thinking, obsessing, potato, potauto). What if we broke through the wall and put all the junk into this other room? Then, we could finish off the basement and have a really neat rec room with a bar and maybe a pool table (or at least that is what I told Tim. I was actually thinking more along the lines of a chick room, but, hey, all's fair in love and home design).
Naturally, I tried to talk Tim into crawling around back there and scoping it out for me, but he had some silly objection to snakes and undead, so the most I could do was get him to shine a flashlight around through the three foot opening and mutter, "Let's move." Not helpful.
When my father came for a visit, I tried to coax him to take a look-see but, once again, there was a lot of flashlight waving and head shaking, but no actual progress on determining the dimensions of the mystery room. Since he is over seventy, I let him slide on this out of the goodness of my heart.
Finally, I got the guy who had done our bathroom to come out to the house and take a look. At last, here was someone who would brave the world of the unknown! Wrong again. I had a brief moment of hope when he actually stuck his head through the opening, but then the flashlight came out and well...
He did, however, determine that it was big enough to hold all my stuff, and said he could dig out the room and cut through the wall to make a door. At least that is what he told me.
His face and tone of voice told another story. They clearly said, "Lady, you are insane. Do you know how much work it would be to haul all of that dirt out, bucket by bucket and pass it through those windows by hand???? Not to mention cutting through a cinder block wall, pouring a concrete floor, and don't even get me started on the possibility that the foundation doesn't go down further than three feet over there and we'd need to build a retaining wall!!!
Okay, so maybe this wasn't the best way to go. Perhaps it was time to come up with Plan B
Friday, October 5, 2007
Shop Till You Drop
I love to shop. Anywhere, anytime, for anything. But not in China.
Here, the rules of engagement are simple: You enter a store and stroll through the aisles where some lovely muzak is playing. Maybe someone offers to help you, or even bring you a soda. You choose an item (or thirty), select the correct size (S,M,L or XL --depending on how the diet is going), and pay what the tag tells you (unless it is on sale, and really, why buy something if it's not?) It's all very simple, very civilized.
Not in China.
There, you have to fight your way through a teeming mass of street vultures, er vendors, just to get to the store ("Hey lady, you want T-shirt, DVD, postcards?). Then, once inside, you fall prey to the pack of salespeople waiting to pounce upon the next victim. The hunter has become the hunted. (Muzak? who can hear anything except, "buy, buy, buy"?)
You wander, dazed, from stand to stand where everyone is selling the exact same things ("No, really, these are real pearls and diamonds for five dollars. See, I can grind them under my heel and they don't break." Yeah, always the mark of fine jewelry. I understand that's how De Beers tests their diamonds.)
If you pause or make eye contact, they have you and it's all over.
Suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by an endless sea of merchandise. You like rings? They have rings. Silver, Gold, Platinum(aluminum, painted aluminum, tin). Tiffany, Cartier, Harry Winston. (Riiiight) Watches? Rolex, Tag, Patek. (all made of lead) Trays and cases and boxes of whatever you want, or think you want, magically appear. Soon, you are buried under an avalanche of fakes, er genuine imitations.
What size do you want? XL,XXL, or XXXL? (Don't even think of looking at S, M, or L unless you make a supermodel look fat or are six years old. Not a real ego boosting experience when they refer you to the men's section because they don't have anything large enough to fit you in women's. The Chinese are seriously tiny compared to us huge, hulking Americans.)
Finally, desperate to escape, you make your selection. Then, the real fun begins.
They tell you it costs $400. It doesn't matter what it is, everything costs $400. (Of course, in Chinese money, this is eighty million dollars, and you have to do the math in your head, which is always fun.) You offer $1.
They pull at their hair, beat their chests, gnash their teeth...and drop the price to $300. You offer $2.
They tell you how pretty you are. How sweet you are. How smart you are. How that ring/watch/shirt was made for you, and only you because no one else would look good in it...and drop the price to $200. You offer $3.
By the way, this is all conducted via calculator. They enter their price, you hit clear and enter your price, they hit clear...and so on, and so on, and so on...Try that at Neiman Marcus.
Anyway, this goes on for some time. You start to walk away, they follow you, grab you, all but body tackle you. They swear you are killing them...slowly.
Finally, you pay $5-$10 for something that is worth fifty cents, and you are free -- sort of. You still have to fight your way back to the door and the bag you are holding labels you an easy mark.
When you do finally escape, exhausted, you sort through your haul only to find that, caught up in the moment, you now own an enormous pile of junk.
However, now that you've refined your bargaining skills, you are ready to go home and buy that used car you've been looking at for $5.
Here, the rules of engagement are simple: You enter a store and stroll through the aisles where some lovely muzak is playing. Maybe someone offers to help you, or even bring you a soda. You choose an item (or thirty), select the correct size (S,M,L or XL --depending on how the diet is going), and pay what the tag tells you (unless it is on sale, and really, why buy something if it's not?) It's all very simple, very civilized.
Not in China.
There, you have to fight your way through a teeming mass of street vultures, er vendors, just to get to the store ("Hey lady, you want T-shirt, DVD, postcards?). Then, once inside, you fall prey to the pack of salespeople waiting to pounce upon the next victim. The hunter has become the hunted. (Muzak? who can hear anything except, "buy, buy, buy"?)
You wander, dazed, from stand to stand where everyone is selling the exact same things ("No, really, these are real pearls and diamonds for five dollars. See, I can grind them under my heel and they don't break." Yeah, always the mark of fine jewelry. I understand that's how De Beers tests their diamonds.)
If you pause or make eye contact, they have you and it's all over.
Suddenly, you find yourself surrounded by an endless sea of merchandise. You like rings? They have rings. Silver, Gold, Platinum(aluminum, painted aluminum, tin). Tiffany, Cartier, Harry Winston. (Riiiight) Watches? Rolex, Tag, Patek. (all made of lead) Trays and cases and boxes of whatever you want, or think you want, magically appear. Soon, you are buried under an avalanche of fakes, er genuine imitations.
What size do you want? XL,XXL, or XXXL? (Don't even think of looking at S, M, or L unless you make a supermodel look fat or are six years old. Not a real ego boosting experience when they refer you to the men's section because they don't have anything large enough to fit you in women's. The Chinese are seriously tiny compared to us huge, hulking Americans.)
Finally, desperate to escape, you make your selection. Then, the real fun begins.
They tell you it costs $400. It doesn't matter what it is, everything costs $400. (Of course, in Chinese money, this is eighty million dollars, and you have to do the math in your head, which is always fun.) You offer $1.
They pull at their hair, beat their chests, gnash their teeth...and drop the price to $300. You offer $2.
They tell you how pretty you are. How sweet you are. How smart you are. How that ring/watch/shirt was made for you, and only you because no one else would look good in it...and drop the price to $200. You offer $3.
By the way, this is all conducted via calculator. They enter their price, you hit clear and enter your price, they hit clear...and so on, and so on, and so on...Try that at Neiman Marcus.
Anyway, this goes on for some time. You start to walk away, they follow you, grab you, all but body tackle you. They swear you are killing them...slowly.
Finally, you pay $5-$10 for something that is worth fifty cents, and you are free -- sort of. You still have to fight your way back to the door and the bag you are holding labels you an easy mark.
When you do finally escape, exhausted, you sort through your haul only to find that, caught up in the moment, you now own an enormous pile of junk.
However, now that you've refined your bargaining skills, you are ready to go home and buy that used car you've been looking at for $5.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Here a Squat, There a Squat, Everywhere a Squat
There is a reason I don't go camping (actually, there are many, many reasons). But a really big one is that I can't squat behind a tree. Seriously, I think I am missing the squatting gene. Maybe, like some other diseases, it skips a generation, or maybe I was switched at birth with a member of the Royal family...yeah, that's it. (I mean, can you imagine HRH Liz hanging with Yogi, looking for a nice, leafy shrub to duck behind?)
Whatever the reason, China should not be on your top ten list of places to visit if you don't squat. Personally, I think their flag should be a toilet with a red line through it instead of a yellow star(s)! Much more helpful.
You had to squat at the wall, the palace, the Forbidden city, and most restaurants. The temples, the terra cotta soldiers site, even the airport all had squat toilets (picture a seat set into the floor with footprint guides on either side). Apparently, everything really is made in China except for toilets.
For someone who has managed to avoid squatting her whole life (and this includes two summers at camp) this was not good. And, as if the situation wasn't bad enough, the smell in these places was blinding! Imagine the elephant cage where the entire herd has been given Metamucil filled bran muffins on a ninety degree day and the air conditioning is broken. That would be an improvement.
To make matters worse, if, by some minor miracle, you did manage to get lucky and behind door number one was an actual toilet...surprise, no paper! I don't mean they ran out, I mean no paper. Ever. Not even a holder. Most of us, fortunately, had been forewarned and came prepared for just such an event. What we were not prepared for was the fact that you did not dispose of your paper in the toilet, but in the wastebasket next to it. (There's a job people are standing in line for!)
You didn't dare do otherwise and clog the only toilet for miles around that wasn't floor level or the sixty people in line behind you(all Americans of course) would have beaten you to death with their purse sized packs of Kleenex and bottles of anti-bacterial gel.
Now, since I don't squat (I was not about to break a life-long record), I didn't drink much during the day (to heck with worrying about germs and parasites, I was more worried about my shoes). Never was I so happy to see the hotel at the end of the day. Tim quickly got used to being second in my affections to a hunk of porcelain. He understood completely when I rushed past his outstretched arms to go embrace the toilet instead.
The hotel staff also took it in stride. They simply unloaded a case of water onto my bedside table every night and placed the recycling bin for the hotel outside our door. Either I am not the first person to ever try and rehydrate at night, or they suspected we were harboring a camel.
After a week of opening doors only to quickly shut them again, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Before getting on the plane for the return flight home, I did check out the bathroom situation. You can't be too careful, and thirteen and a half hours is a long time to wait for a seat.
Whatever the reason, China should not be on your top ten list of places to visit if you don't squat. Personally, I think their flag should be a toilet with a red line through it instead of a yellow star(s)! Much more helpful.
You had to squat at the wall, the palace, the Forbidden city, and most restaurants. The temples, the terra cotta soldiers site, even the airport all had squat toilets (picture a seat set into the floor with footprint guides on either side). Apparently, everything really is made in China except for toilets.
For someone who has managed to avoid squatting her whole life (and this includes two summers at camp) this was not good. And, as if the situation wasn't bad enough, the smell in these places was blinding! Imagine the elephant cage where the entire herd has been given Metamucil filled bran muffins on a ninety degree day and the air conditioning is broken. That would be an improvement.
To make matters worse, if, by some minor miracle, you did manage to get lucky and behind door number one was an actual toilet...surprise, no paper! I don't mean they ran out, I mean no paper. Ever. Not even a holder. Most of us, fortunately, had been forewarned and came prepared for just such an event. What we were not prepared for was the fact that you did not dispose of your paper in the toilet, but in the wastebasket next to it. (There's a job people are standing in line for!)
You didn't dare do otherwise and clog the only toilet for miles around that wasn't floor level or the sixty people in line behind you(all Americans of course) would have beaten you to death with their purse sized packs of Kleenex and bottles of anti-bacterial gel.
Now, since I don't squat (I was not about to break a life-long record), I didn't drink much during the day (to heck with worrying about germs and parasites, I was more worried about my shoes). Never was I so happy to see the hotel at the end of the day. Tim quickly got used to being second in my affections to a hunk of porcelain. He understood completely when I rushed past his outstretched arms to go embrace the toilet instead.
The hotel staff also took it in stride. They simply unloaded a case of water onto my bedside table every night and placed the recycling bin for the hotel outside our door. Either I am not the first person to ever try and rehydrate at night, or they suspected we were harboring a camel.
After a week of opening doors only to quickly shut them again, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Before getting on the plane for the return flight home, I did check out the bathroom situation. You can't be too careful, and thirteen and a half hours is a long time to wait for a seat.
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