Mr. Reddy Killowatt took one look at the vintage light fixtures which I’d so lovingly been hoarding for over a year now, and declared them unfit for duty. No way. No how. Having dissed my vintage fixtures, he pronounced my expensive ceiling fans unnecessarily unwieldy and complicated. And where, he demanded to know, had the plumbers gone? And why hadn’t they hooked up the hot water heater? And where was the wall sconce for the downstairs bathroom? At that point, I had to go outside for a calming sip of Diet Coke. It was still before noon, so a calming sip of vodka was sorta out of the question. Outside, the twang of country music from Keith’s radio was duelling with the dulcet tones of radio Guadalajara, being played by the painters, who were up on ladders. At least they weren’t dissing me. I think, but am not sure, since my three years of high school Spanish pretty much limits me to phrases like “Si! No habla espanol.” Also–“Si! Mi casa esta todo azul.” I could have asked them “donde esta el cuarto del bano,” but sadly, I already knew the answer to that question. No esta aqui. Much like the plumbers.
Shed roofs on steroids
Ok, I’m back down at Tybee knee-deep in renovation hell. Pulled up to The Breeze Inn yesterday, and my first reaction was “oh #$%@!”. The shed roofs we’d designed to go over the front windows and front door had mysteriously mutated into an overgrown porch that wasn’t quite a porch. I’d love to have a front porch, of course, but the setback restrictions down here are pretty rigid, so no porch. After a quick consultation with the framing guys, and some hurried pix which I quickly emailed to Mr. MK, we all agreed that the sheds on steroids had to be dialled down. Keith, our cheerful framer/trim carpenter, set to work on that this morning, first thing. In the meantime, the painters, plumbers, HVAC guy and electricians all began their frontal assault. Where were these guys all summer? So here’s what happened. Mr. Chick–really, no shit, that’s his name, ran his ginormous aluminum ductwork across my gorgeous Morning Sky blue ceilings, and informed me that that’s how they were supposed to look. I could have wept, but there wasn’t time, because before you could say “make mine a double Xanax mocha-latte vanilla Valium”, Billy, the plumber, informed me that the antique vanity I bought in Brimfield, and which I’d already had a sink (second sink–first one was too big) dropped into, would not fit in the downstairs bath. No way. We scurried around and determined that the vanity would fit in the master bath. Once we settled the sink issue, the plumbers vanished. Into thin air. I mean, one minute there were three of them, the next minute, poof–gone. Much like our beach house budget. But, I mean, it’s a small island–where the hell could they be? No time to find out, because now the electrician–(surly, dismissive of women) had arrived, even though he’d already told Mr. MK he couldn’t make it today. So now, Jane and I, (Jane being the fabulous, disaster-averting Jane Coslick, responding to my panicked 911 call) were scurrying around, trying to place correct light fixtures in their corresponding positions.