Shower Walls And Nervous Breakdowns

I used to play a little game in the old blog from time to time. It was called "Bet for a Day," and it usually revolved around what it might be like if you were to, sadly, wake up one morning and find me looking back at you in the mirror. Then it would go on to tell you all the horrible things I endured upon any given day. It was one of those funny exercises, well, funny in a very depressing kind of way.

I haven't done that in a long time, and I'm not about to start back tonight. But I feel like I'm reaching the edge of a mighty cliff here, and I don't know if, once my toes grip the end, I shall end up soaring away to happiness or have the earth crumble beneath me as I fall hard 1000 feet below on my hind end. So just to be safe I shall be polishing my wings and tying a large pillow to my ass.

It was probably, what, 6 weeks ago I started talking about my shower wall? It was actually a highlight - that shower wall was a highlight of my week! I'd worked lovingly on the tiles that I had to replace when the originals fell off, with the soapdish, onto my foot, I'd re-caulked and cleaned and scraped and just been a regular Martha Stewart minus the jail time. But in with that highlight came the lowlight of pushing around on my shower wall during all that work, and finding that the wall, well, gave. It gave way when I pressed upon it, and I knew this wasn't really the way a wall was supposed to be working.

And so began what I've come to call The Shower Wall Debacle.

Since I was worried, I called my general Construction Hero, Ricky Ricardo. Ricky Ricardo and his Mrs are friends of mine and my family's, he teaches at the local high school, and he and Mrs Ricky Ricardo have three of the finest boys put on the earth as sons. He installed my shower door, he's hammered atop my roof. I know and trust Ricky Ricardo. I may not like his news, but I trust him that it is honest news.

His news (for those of you keeping score at home who don't listen to the podcast) was that for this little job, if nothing was wrong once he got behind my shower wall tiles, I was looking at about $1800 of my money and five days of my life. And that right there was a little problem, because, to be blunt, I couldn't look at either of those things, because I don't have them.

Now, money is money and it's set in stone. In other words, if you don't have $1800 you don't have $1800. And I don't, not at hand, to just pick up and hand to someone. And the five days of my life, well, that was a little more complicated, but it mainly has to do with only having one bathroom in the Poderosa and making "outside" showering arrangements. So I started having a nice think about the upcoming Bathroom Battle probably ahead of me, and tried to keep it in that area somewhere middleways to the back of my head.

And I set about the task of living my regular life, all while thinking about the bathroom. And the bathroom's not a particularly fun thing to think about, even in the best of times, and my regular life of late hasn't exactly been a whirlwind of contentment.

I go to work every day, and work the four-person office that's gone down to the three- and subsequent two-person office, where it's been very busy and I spend my days having pieces of paper shoved at me by Tempie the Temp every four minutes with whatever the new task at hand may be, tasks that take way longer than four minutes and so you know what my backlog of work must look like. I often bring a protein-laden Orange Crapius back to work from lunch to pep me up and keep my hair from falling out, and I never drink it because I don't have time. Because I can't seem to summon the courage to drink from a big honking red plastic thermal mug in front of the various and sundry customers who are in my face all day. So I have no pep, and though I still have hair, I have about several thousand less of them than I did a few months ago.

And all the while, it was in the back of my mind. The Shower Wall Debacle.

Then I've been hitting the road, to band practice for the dismal Fourth of July concert I said I'd refuse to play in but let myself get roped into doing anyway, and to Mr M's on the weekend, where I get frustrated over my whole non-mastery of the clarinet, and sometimes it's fun anyway and I laugh, but I'm still thinking about the SWD. Just like it's in my head while I'm doing the podcast, and chatting with the faithful in #squeeze, two very fun activities indeed, and it'll even occasionally pop into my head while I'm trying to enjoy a movie.

So I called and left a message for Ricky Ricardo, just to get this thing out of my mind and into my bathroom.

Speaking of the Fourth of July concert, that came off on, oddly enough, July 4, and I was of such a foul demeanor I'm surprised I didn't just explode and go up like so many fireworks. It was hot and humid, it had rained earlier, I was sweaty, and a couple of things happened that almost pushed me over the edge, not the least of which was Mr M's getting angry at me because I was tormenting him with a rubber chicken. Up until that point, the rubber chicken, which he's always hated, don't get me wrong, he still laughed at because I gave said chicken a great southern accent and always made him say things like, "He'p me, he'p me! They gonna put me in a pot!" I guess it got real old real quick. So I drove home from the concert all frowny, into a storm of biblical proportions, thinking about the death of my funny chicken schtick and my Shower Wall. And woke up the next morning, headed to work, and noticed that the hard rains have all but killed my flowers.

But then, guess what. Ricky Ricardo called and said he could do my Shower Wall. Immediately.

I went home for lunch yesterday, my one hour of solitude during the whole day, and just as I was sinking down into a calmish state, who should pull up in my driveway but Ricky Ricardo and one of his fine sons. They did measurements, and he told me what I'd need, exactly how many tiles of which kind (did you know that there are things called bullnose tiles? I sure didn't), and that he'd start today.

I suddenly started to get a little excited about it all. Wow - I got to go to the Home Improvement Store and pick out tiles, what color did I want, I was getting a new shower! A whole new look to my bathroom! So in another blinding rain, I went and picked up the dad, because we all know things like this are best done with Dad in tow, and headed out. Only to find that if I needed that many tiles that quickly, I had 2 options. White and almost white. Well, that shot my big ideas right in the ass, didn't it? Not necessarily, said Teenaged Boy Working at the Home Improvement Store. I could pick fancy borders, or different colored tiles to put a pattern in my wall, and that, "Tiles are as big as your imagination." And I'm sure he said that not knowing just how big my imagination is, and that wouldn't it be cool if I picked 420 (my tile total) different colors, or just enough dark blue tiles to spell out "Bite Me" on my shower wall alongside the whites.

I ended up with white, but nice white, they're textured and fancy-looking, and I just decided to go on a white spree and get white grout to boot. I figured that doing this will force me to paint my bathroom walls, which I've been wanting to do anyway, and things will really look new and shiny all around. I plunked down my paid-off credit card and charged $208 on it. (Did you know that tiles are cheaper than you'd think? I sure didn't.) And Dad and I hauled them to my car and then inside my house (did you know tiles are really heavy? I sure didn't), and I took him back home, then - headed back home to change and make the 40-minute drive out to get a pedicure.

I needed that pedicure. I needed my wonderful, strong-handed pedicurist rubbing around on my feet and legs and telling me stuff that makes me giggle. What I didn't need, however, were visitors.

There I was last night, naked from the thighs down, sitting in the Big Chair, when a woman just barged right back into the pedicure room. I was shocked, the pedicurist was mortified. This woman just started talking to Ms Pedicure like, well, like she'd been invited in, and then went on to say, "I want you to look at my husband's nails. Just look at his nails!" Upon which she dragged her husband into the pedicure room, where I was still naked from the thighs down, and showed Ms Pedicure his nails. Then the woman looked at me and said, "I'm sorry to come in like this on you," and I just sat there with my mouth open like I was catatonic, which I guess I was, but all I could think was, "No you're not! If you were, you wouldn't have come in here in the first place, you idiot!"

Then, after the husband's nails had been shown, and believe me, there was something going on with them because they were some bad fingernails, the man - went outside, got in his car, and drove away! He just came there to interrupt my pedicure, and did I mention I was naked from the thighs down, and show my pedicurist his nails!

God have mercy, what a life I lead.

Anyway, I recovered from it all, after being apologized to profusely by my pedicurist even though it wasn't her fault, and I made it home at 9:30, heated up some soup, and sat in the Comfy Chair to watch one of the two movies I have to return by Friday and probably won't get to see. Because I woke up 20 minutes later, my soup still in the bowl in my lap, and I was still holding my spoon. This is actually rather sad but I felt a sense of accomplishment because during my slumber I'd spilled nary a drop, and I put the bowl on the table beside me and continued sleeping in the chair till almost 1am. After which I transferred to the bed, and woke up this morning covered in chocolate, as were my sheets and a pillowcase, because at some point last night I seem to have slept on a chocolate-covered protein bar. The sheets are in the washer as we speak, but I have little hope of their coming out de-stained.

To wrap this all up, and I know it's been way too long a story and you've probably already stopped reading (and I don't blame you), I popped by the house at lunch and Ricky Ricardo told me that the prognosis was not good. The wall was indeed very wet from a long spell of tile leakage and it would have to be replaced. And I envisioned spending all of my money and the rest of my life taking showers at my folks' house, but when I got back from work today things were a lot better off than they were at lunchtime. As you can see here. I was also told that though the wall was a disaster, I had very strong studs that wouldn't need replacing. I never knew I had strong studs, and also never knew that the ones I did have were in my shower all this time watching me bathe. Where I'm naked from way more than the thighs down.

So where does that leave me? I don't know. I'm worried about the money, but happy to have a new bathroom. I'm still tired and hate work, and the boss will be on vacation next week, which, frankly, scares me shitless because I'll be the only person there who can actually do anything. My friend and workmate San will be in and out for a few hours, though, so that makes me happy, and at least I can enjoy the fun activities of my life now without the Shower Wall Debacle hanging halfway in my mind.

I'll keep the pillow tied to my ass, though. Just in case.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Just in case you've been wondering, and I know you have, the Hackensaw Boys have a MySpace page, and if you go there you can listen to four great live tracks, one of which is my favorite live song, "Gospel Plow." Go on, do it. It'll make you happy, you know it.