STAYCATION

They say on the stress scale of life, vacations are up there.  How foolish is that for those of us who work 40 to 60 hours a week or more?  We Americans who work harder than many other of our compatriots in European countries or Australia.  Those of us lucky enough to have jobs.

We long to get away from our everyday lives to a fantasy island or exotic country or lovely beachfront or we want to reinvigorate our marriages—like in the early days when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.  We want to be completely stress free and happy.  We want to be younger and better versions of ourselves.  We want to do everything we never get a chance to do during our busy work weeks.  Is this asking too much? 

When I told my friends and colleagues that I was taking two weeks off (even though I have many more banked days) they got so excited.  “Where are you going, where are you going?” 

“I’m going home,” I said. 

“Oh, to Australia!!!  Fabulous.” 

“No, actually.  It’s a Staycation.” Sorry it couldn’t be Sydney or Barcelona or Cardiff by the Sea.  Glassell Park in LA.  Big yawn.  My home, right or wrong. 

“It’s a working woman’s dream,” I assured my critics with more surety than I felt.  A working woman without kids, of course.  Dealing with kids and vacations:  well, that’s another whole essay I shall leave to others. 

Not only was my husband, who has his own company and works from home, not really on vacation, but it also didn’t seem like much of a rest after a hectic year at work to organize it, pack, fly somewhere and then come back to work exhausted.  An LA vacation would be great for me. 

People come from all over the world to visit LA.  I could have 17 glorious days here, counting weekends and Fridays (when the college was closed), to explore or not, as the spirit moved me.  I told all who inquired that I would take little day trips and do all the things I never had time for.  A colleague of mine sent me an actual itinerary they had created for their Staycation that included two packed weeks of Hollywood tours, art galleries, shows, beaches, parks, fine dining, concerts etc. etc.  I deleted it from my e-mail.  After all, organizing and making plans was what I had to do EVERY day in my job.  I would be free floating, Zen, relaxed, take it as it comes, open, expansive, fearless, a vegetable or not, as the mood dictated.

Still, I couldn’t help organizing it in my mind.   Go to Huntington Gardens, go to the beach, go to very important museums, read books, see movies, see dear friends, go see Dudamel conduct at Disney Concert Hall, organize: (yes, there’s that terrible word) my shoes that were heaped in an indistinguishable mass at the bottom of my closet, clothes that crowded my closets, handbags crushed together in a heap.  Exercise, relax, relax, relax.  Figure out how to post to my blog, buy and learn how to use a tablet, clean out my bathroom drawers. Relax.  Relax.  Relax.

The two weeks have come and gone.  Now, I can share the unvarnished truth.  I spent a week before my vacation anxious and upset.  There was so much I wanted to do and so much I didn’t want to do—for which the time off seemed puny.  Was I setting myself up for failure before I even began?  My last day of work, however, gave me hope.  

I was joyous, at 5:30 PM, after everyone had left, taking care of each piece of paper on my desk.  By 6:30 my desk was clean and my voice and e-mail message explained to everyone that I was on vacation.  I left the office, excited.

Worry not.  This will not be a blow by blow account of the Staycation.  Rather, it is a sociological overview of how it worked, how it felt, and what it added to the general economy: smoothly, wonderful, nothing.  By the time I returned to work, I was prepared and relaxed.  So take notes, all you high achievers out there.

True, I checked work e-mail, and six days before the end of my vacation, prepared a to-do list for my first day back.  But, then again, I didn’t wake up worrying at two or three A.M.  And my first day back was pretty good.  You might say, I hit the ground running.  Not being dragged behind the car on a bumpy, perilous road, the way one feels after three weeks on some exotic island.

I did some swell things during those two weeks.  At the top of my list was a breakfast in Marina del Rey with my dear friend—great coffee, great eggs, great conversation.  A three and a half hour lunch with another friend in the Mid-Wilshire district—including a walking tour of a Jewish Temple and lunch to catch up.  An amazing telephone conversation with my brother in Melbourne.  Sitting on Santa Monica Beach watching the waves, lunch at the Omelet Parlor on Main Street reading Meg Wolitzer’s “The Interestings” on my Kindle.  That book was another high point of my Staycation.  If you haven’t read it, you are in for a treat.  As soon as I finished it, I wanted to start reading it again.  And I will.  After I’ve read everything else this brilliant broad has written. 

I discoverd another tremendous writer during my vacation, James Salter, whose un-literary name used to be “Horowitz!”  This prolific man is now 85 and has won all sorts of awards.  I am working my way through his books, too.  How did I not know about him?  I told my dear Marina del Rey friend that I was in love with James and she reminded me that I was married and that he was married.  “I am theoretically in love with him,” I earnestly explained.  Read his books and you’ll understand.   

I spent a day at Huntington Gardens, and even though they were doing major construction, managed to find many comfortable benches in the Japanese, Australian, and Chinese gardens to listen to my IPOD with the many thousands of songs my wonderful brother has given to me. (Best present I ever got!)  I even wandered through a garden I’d never been in before and attempted to take photos on my phone.  The glare was so great, I couldn’t see a thing.  And when I got back home, I discovered I had taken upside-down, shaky videos instead of photos.  (Next vacation:  learn how to use the camera feature.)

I never made it to the Important and Interesting Museums, which, honestly, I find less and less compelling.  The best gallery I ever experienced was outdoors—the artwork of Australian sculptor and painter Bruno Torfs.  

 

“Nestled amongst the luscious rainforest setting lives a collection of unforgettable characters lovingly hand crafted by Bruno from clay and fired onsite in his kiln. Bruno has created a world rich with fantasy and insightful beauty derived from his imagination and inspired by his intrepid journeys to some the world most intriguing and remote regions.”

 

My husband and I went with there my baby sister and her family.  It was the highpoint of our visit to Australia three years ago.  You could wander around Bruno’s garden and actually touch things.  I know, I know.  You can’t do that with everything.  But, museums are numbing experiences to me these days.  I don’t like armed guards standing in every corridor, around every bend.  I don’t like viewing art behind barriers.

I spent several cool evenings outside on our front patio with my husband, sipping lovely white wine, watching the sunsets and chatting.  This works only if you have an interesting Zen husband/partner who still thinks it’s worth sitting outside with you.  And vice versa.

I ordered on-line two 3-tiered shoe racks for our closets to organize our mayhem of shoes.  I am in heaven because my shoes no longer fall into an indistinguishable heap. I even discovered very serviceable shoes that I had forgotten all about.   I also located at Target some plastic stackable drawers to keep my handbags from tumbling into one another.  I gave three large garbage bags of stuff from my closets to a nonprofit.  I wish my creative baby sister lived here so she could have helped me reorganize all my clothes but I had to make do.

I bought an Android Galaxy Tablet and started to learn how to use it.  People at work no longer use pen and paper, and I need to go with the flow.  Although I still love pen and paper and, at the moment, I hate my tablet.    

There was more.  Waking up in the morning and remembering that there was nothing I had to do.  Sleeping a bit late.  It’s pathetic.  But when you get OLD you can’t sleep late any more.  Seven a.m. is very late for me and my husband.  Still, seven felt great.  Once, it was even seven-thirty. 

One more thing—we bought tickets for a concert at Disney Hall with Gustavo Dudamel, Yo Yo Ma and the Los Angeles Philharmonic on September 30th.  It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since Dudamel started as conductor there several years ago.  Very expensive tickets, but it’s going to be worth every penny.  Besides, we saved so much not flying anywhere or paying for hotels.

And now, I’m back at work.  But I went back with a fully fleshed out game plan.  My first week was productive and relatively stress-free, although you might have to check with my husband about that.  I know that half the world is falling apart.  And there are so many injustices that exist.  In Africa.  In Syria.  In Eygpt.  In Israel.  In Florida.  In Texas.  And right here in LA.  And so many of those problems seem intractable.  But still, we need to survive this world.  We need to find our own balance, which may, at times, include, not watching the news, not trying to solve all of the world’s problems, not taking responsibility for everything that goes wrong.

Taking a vacation gave me the illusion of control: organizing my shoes and handbags and to-do lists.  And it gave me the illusion that I’d given up control:  not knowing what I would do each day.  Playing it by ear.  Even though my vacation is over now, I still have a job that engages me and in which I feel like I am doing good things for young people.  Because of this vacation, I feel kinder and gentler towards every living, breathing thing.  And grateful for living in in this crazy, strange city. 

 

 

 

COUPE DE VILLE

 

They say you never forget your first kiss or your first car.  My first kiss took place on the Manly Ferry in Australia when I was 16.  I was pretending to gaze at moonlit Sydney Harbor, keenly aware that David T. was gazing at me.  “You’re so beautiful,” he said, turning my face towards his.  Then he kissed me on the lips.  Although there was no real relationship—how could there be between a child of 16 and a man of 26—it softened that year of my adolescence.  My first car was a different matter altogether. 

I was 29 years old and living in Los Angeles.  My fate was sealed during an interview for my first American job as a Program Director for a nonprofit agency when my prospective boss asked if I had a California driver’s license.  My Masters in Social Work from the London School of Economics, brand-new though it was, possibly impressed her more than my actual capabilities, and definitely more than my experience.  To be a Program Director in America seemed beyond my reach.  I wasn’t even sure what it meant, but I hadn’t directed anything in my life, never driven a car, let alone owned one, and had no handle on what working in America could mean.  Despite the throbbing pulse above my carotid artery, I looked her straight in the eyes.  “No, I don’t have a California license but I can get one.”  It wasn’t really a lie, but it felt like one.

The next day, I took my first driving lesson.  I had grown up in Sydney and London—both known for their excellent public transportation.  I took the bus, tube, or train without ever questioning the need for a car.  I planned to take public transportation in Los Angeles, too.  It didn’t take me long to discover, however, that taking a bus in LA from point A to point B required an advanced degree in geography, a sense of direction, a robust bladder, patience and a lot of desperation.  I had one out of five—desperation—which soon became my constant guide.

My Los Angeles driving instructor was an elderly man at the end of his career.  He died shortly after our last lesson.  I’d like to think my driving did nothing to contribute to his demise but to this day I’m not sure.  He was astounded by the depth of my cluelessness.  North.  South.  East.  West.  They were just words to me.  Even left and right required me to orient myself by tracing a vague bump on my right thumb that I had sucked as a child.  This led to a terrible time lag from the time he barked directions at me to the time I reacted with the steering wheel, gas pedal or brakes.  But I worked hard and finally, despite his doubts, passed the final test.  He kissed his cross when I left the DMV.

I got the Program Director job, too.  I counted on having time to figure out the driving thing.  I didn’t even have a car and certainly no money to buy one but I was determined that it wouldn’t be a problem.  I’d learn the bus routes to the 21 different locations around Los Angeles County that were the official ‘programs’ of this nonprofit and my boss would forget all about the license. 

On the Friday of my first week, my boss called me into her office.  She was an older woman, my mother’s age, but there the comparison stopped.  My mother never held a job in her life.  Sure, she raised five children, lived in three different countries, and managed to survive the death of two husbands, and marriage to a third, but she was never a friend or mentor to me.  I loved her intensely, but never trusted her.  This boss, I grew to trust and love.  But it was slow in coming. The car thing did not speed things along.

“I have some great news,” she said.  “You know we have a car donation program here.  Well, someone has just donated one.  It’s in pristine shape, owned by a little old Jewish woman who hardly ever drove.  Come, let’s take a look.”  She marched me out to the parking lot. 

There, in the corner stretched the longest, shiniest car I had ever seen.  It looked like some outlandish white bird poised to kill its prey.  Turning it around a corner would require an entire crew of engineers.  My boss ran her index finger along the winged white fins on the back.  There was gold lettering that proclaimed CADILLAC.  “It’s a 1967 Coupe de Ville.  What a beauty!  Twelve-years-old but in great shape.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist to hide my trembling.  No one in London or Sydney ever drove anything even half its size.  This was surely a car for very rich Americans.  That thought calmed me down.  I wouldn’t have to worry.  Not only did I have a mere hundred dollars in my newly opened American bank account, but I also carried no credit cards and had no family money.  And, I hadn’t even been paid yet in my first American job.  There was no way I could afford it.  Politely, I declined, explaining my lack of finances.

“We’ll sell it to you for just $300,” she said.  “It’s an amazing deal.  The interior is perfect,” she said, opening the driver’s side door.  “Vanilla white seats with no nicks.  These are the original French seats and armrest, and look, automatic windows.  Here’s an am/fm radio that works.  I’ve already tested it.  And it’s only got 41,000 miles.  Pristine condition.”

“It’s very nice,” I said, not understanding anything about exteriors or interiors of cars, “but I don’t have $300.”  I didn’t see the point of prolonging the agony.  She needed to know how poor I was.  Maybe she could buy the car for herself.  I understood it wasn’t unheard of for Americans to have two, sometimes three cars each.

“I know you haven’t been paid yet, but don’t worry.  We’ll loan you the money and you can pay a small amount each month, whatever you can afford.  And best of all, you can drive it off the parking lot today.”  She was forceful, competent, upbeat—American—and tremendously pleased with herself.  Helping the poor and the stricken was something she excelled at, as I later learned.  She adopted a homeless man, once, who peed in the front doors of her nonprofit.  But that didn’t faze her.  She struck a deal with him.  He could sleep in the doorway, if he didn’t pee there, and if he helped clean up the parking lot.  Plus, she would pay him a small stipend each week. 

Although I was poor and practically an orphan, I was fully employed with an advanced degree—an easy case for her.  How could I tell her the truth?  That besides my driver’s ed car, I’d never driven one.  That I wouldn’t be able to negotiate getting out of the chain link fence at the back of the parking lot. That I wasn’t even sure I could find my way home without the bus. 

But it was my first American job, so I smiled and thanked her.  She had me sign some papers in her office, and handed me the keys.  When 5:00 p.m. rolled round, the car would be mine.  I waited until 5:30, when she and everyone else had already headed home.

Before I even got over to the Coupe de Ville, I was shaking.  It took me ten minutes to insert the key into the ignition.  The four mile trip from the parking lot on Fairfax Avenue to my small Spanish apartment on Harper Avenue between Sunset and Fountain was the longest trip of my life.  Longer than going from Sydney to Israel.  Longer than going from Israel to London.  Longer even than London to Los Angeles. 

If my driving instructor is still hovering in this world, hoping to see the difference he made, I only have this to say: without your voice in my head, I never would have made it back to my apartment alive.  “Foot on brake, check your mirrors, signal.  You are in control.  Go with the traffic.  Deep breaths.  Here’s a stop sign.  Count to three.  One one hundred, two one hundred, three one hundred.  There you go.”

I proceeded with great caution.  It was like steering an enormous boat down a narrow, twisting canal in Venice, Italy.  Nevertheless, with my limited spatial sense and heightened anxiety, during one of my turns into one of the many side streets, I clipped a parked car.  It was an elegant dark blue car.  Possibly a Mercedes Benz.  Or a Lincoln Continental.  Belonging to a banker or an attorney, who might have been a major donor to my new nonprofit.  Its alarm started to bleep.  I was terrified.  I had never heard a car alarm before.  Bleep, bleep.  I kept crawling along in my oversized boat gripping the steering wheel as I checked the rear vision mirror for the police, who were surely on their way to arrest me.  Bleep, bleep, bleep.  I would lose my job.  I would be thrown in jail.  Bleeeepppp! 

But, miraculously, nothing happened.

Later on, much later on, I realized that I should have stopped and put a note on the car.  If you were the driver of that dark blue car, right off Fairfax Avenue, I am so sorry.  I was a brand-new driver.  I didn’t know about leaving notes.  I don’t recall that in the driver’s manual. It was never discussed in England or Australia.

Gripping the leather encased steering wheel, I periodically wiped my drenched hands on my flowered skirt as I crawled down the street in this stretch Cadillac, like some traumatized victim of a bad Hollywood movie.  Finally, I arrived at my apartment on Harper Avenue in Hollywood.

After the first wave of relief, I realized how cruelly curved the driveway was that led into the parking spots for the apartment building.  How would I ever get this Coupe de Ville around those curves?  With three or four times as much room, I had clipped a car.  This was an impossibility. It was before carphones or cellphones, so I couldn’t call anyone for help.  I was On My Own.  And so I parked two blocks away on the street and walked back to my apartment.

On Monday morning, my boss greeted me in the hallway.  “Don’t you love it?” 

“Yes, thank you so much.”  I had barely managed to get it into the parking lot that morning, and it had taken me three attempts to park between the yellow lines.

“So, today, you’re going to one of our projects at Juvenile Hall.  I need you to assess its viability.  The volunteers are very well-meaning, middle class ladies, but do they really add anything to the lives of these incarcerated kids?  I need your expert opinion.”

“Absolutely,” I said.  I was a highly educated professional who had graduated from The London School of Economics.  I could do this. 

My boss explained that the volunteers would meet me at the Bob’s Big Boy parking lot on La Cienega.  She gave me the address, and I took out my Thomas Map Guidebook.  This was a thick book (presupposing that you knew how to read maps) with detailed street maps of Los Angeles County and an index in the back.  After stopping several times, pushing the automatic button for my driver’s side window of my 1967 Coupe de Ville to ask a stranger which way was west, I finally found the Big Boy’s Parking lot.  I parked the car, a bit crooked but not too bad, and was about to turn off the engine and get out when a white-haired old lady motioned for me to roll down the same window.  “Are you Lisa Horowitz?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m Sophie.  Boy, are we glad to see you.  Come on girls!  It’s her.”  Before I had a chance to explain that I was a brand-new driver, five little old ladies, two in the front on my expansive leather seats, and three in the back, were securely seated, greeting me like I was their granddaughter.  My pounding heart, sweaty palms and trembling legs were hidden from their view. 

“We’re so glad to welcome you to your job,” said Sophie.  “None of us want to drive the freeways.”

And so, Sophie directed me onto the daunting Los Angeles Freeway system, all the way to Juvenile Hall in Sylmar, California.  I thought about telling her that I’d only had the car for four days, but I didn’t want them to panic.  If they panicked, I would panic even more.  It would be best to go along with the plan.

My desperation to not kill them outweighed my fear of driving.  I got them safely there and then back to Bob’s Big Boy.  My evaluation of the Juvenile Hall project:  the kids seemed to really love their little old lady visitors and laughed and talked with them for a full hour.  And those dedicated Juvenile Hall ladies never knew that not only were they were my first passengers, but I held their fate in my evaluation report. 

A traffic cop pulled me over on the Santa Monica Freeway the next day—as I was headed to Venice Beach to meet my boyfriend—for doing an unsafe lane change.  He took one look at my trembling hands and the recent date on my driver’s license and let me go with a warning to drive safely. 

Eventually, I learned how not to clip other cars and buildings, and to safely change lanes.  But as soon as I could, I traded in my Cadillac in for a bright orange VW Bug that a dear friend of mine sold to me for next to nothing. 

It took me years to appreciate the symbolism of that Coupe de Ville.  It’s majestic expanse kept me safe during my first year of driving.  It was my introduction to life in Los Angeles, where one’s dreams could be as wide and unlikely as one could possibly dream.  Because, maybe, just maybe, they would come true.

 

 

 

Unintended Consequences of Remodeling

By Lisa Horowitz Brooks

This essay is about a supposedly simple remodel of a bathroom.

Here are some basic facts you need to take into consideration:  I grew up in a teeny house in Paddington.  That’s in Sydney, Australia, not London, England.  My family shared one bathroom between 7 people, which left most of my mornings in cross-legged pain.

Fast forward to Glassell Park, Los Angeles, where I now live with my mostly patient husband of 26 years.  He is Black American.  Not African-American.  He hates that.  His family roots are here, not Africa.  Memphis, Tennessee, actually.  But that’s a whole other essay.  Suffice it to say that he is one of those macho handy type men who understands the finer points of electric sawing, hammering, drilling, how to open things and put them back together–all of which eluded my Jewish father.  It’s a genetic thing.  And please, don’t protest about me being un-PC.  It’s just true. 

As for me.  Not your stereo-typical Jewish princess, except when it comes to fixing things.  A communist-leaning family, always in debt, who traveled the globe in search of . . . what?  I never quite figured it out.  But now, my mother lives in Israel, where my father (who died at 56, possibly from exhaustion) is buried.  My older sister and her family live there, too.  My 2 brothers and baby sister and her family live in Melbourne, Australia.  You don’t really need to know all of this to understand the remodeling story, but it probably illuminates the unintended consequences of my dislocated and dissonant background. 

So, here we are in Glassell Park. Me and my long-suffering husband.  Glassell Park, for those of you who are not in the know, is between Eagle Rock and Glendale.  Kind of a no-man’s land.  Some gang activity, but not in the hills where we reside.  Too steep to climb up with your automatic rifle.  Twenty-six years ago, it was an affordable neighborhood for two pseudo-artists who were poster people for diversity. 

So, back to the bathroom.  Our home, which we bought for $114,000 in 1984 was designed by an architect who built it in 1950.  What a gift!  He designed sweeping archways, built-in closets and lots of other lovely touches—including, but not limited to—The Master Bathroom.   Long before its time, it boasted of an expansive counter-top sink, lots of floor space (over which I spread my yoga mat (not every morning, but still, often enough), and a functional sink and toilet.  But more important was—The  Other Bathroom—actually a half a bathroom that my husband gallantly took as his.  No bathtub, just a shower stall, tiny sink, no space for Stuff.  I have many times attributed our long and glorious marriage to these separate bathrooms, and his willingness to take the Bad One. 

So, here’s the thing.  The wall and the shower faucets on the Good One began to separate—a couple of years ago.  The toilet was rocky.  The sink was held together by a paperclip, or so it seemed to me.  We had several estimates for the work—usually $10,000 and above, which seemed enormous especially in this recession.  So, we waited and watched the mold set in and spread.  The toilet got more unstable, and I had visions of one day floating down the hill.  Or falling through the floor to the basement below.

I determined we would actually make the trip back to Australia in February, 2011—the one we’d been talking about for years.  I hadn’t seen my brothers in 16 years.  I’d never met my 5-year old nephew, my 12-year old niece, and I really missed my baby sister and brother-in-law.  My husband had never been.  Though we didn’t exactly have the money, my calculations indicated that if I didn’t organize it this year, we’d never go.  I stressed about the expense, then put it on the credit card.

And then a wonderful thing happened.  A company, who shall be nameless, caused damage to our home, admitted culpability and we received payment.  We hired our brother-in-law as the contractor.  Our brother-in-law is a licensed electrician and plumber, plus he could be trusted to look after the dogs—a Great Dane, and a mutt—while we were in Australia.  Plus he folded in the bathroom re-do at the same time.  Plus, he promised to get it all done before our return!! 

I left a week earlier than my husband to laugh and cry with my siblings. During that week, my husband bought the tub etc ...  I gave the okay for the basics before I left:  the tiles, the color of the wall.  Not ever having done this, I was not fussy, and went with his and my brother-in-law’s final recommendations.

I flew into Melbourne an hour ahead of schedule, the plane fueled by a cyclone.  The second day, in Melbourne, there was a major flood, during which I, along and my baby sister, her husband, and 5-year old boy were officially homeless.  We adjusted—thanks to a dear friend of theirs.  I slept in their kitchen on a couch/bed and my sister and family (all 3 of them) slept in the bedroom of the son.  My bathroom environment (one shared between 5—was still better than my childhood odds.  But I couldn’t find my shower cap or any of my carefully packed products.  There was no space for my toothbrush.  My towel smelled funny.  But it was an emergency.  I adjusted. And I thought lovingly of the new bathroom awaiting our return home.

My husband arrived in Australia a week later.  We stayed in a serviced apartment in St. Kilda, Melbourne.  We had our own, albeit small bathroom, in which I hung everything I had rescued from the flood.  Not my shower cap. Not my facial cleanser.  Not my moisturizer.  Not my second toothbrush. But hey, it was a flood.  My sister and her family had settled into being honored guests in their friend’s home, enjoying being taken care of, and I settled into the luxury of our one-room apartment.

We proceeded to Sydney a week later where I had grown up and lived for 12 years.  I recently talked to a man who had fled Yugoslavia and returned for a visit.  Everything was just the same, he said.  He recognized the mountains, the hill, the school he had attended, the village where he and his family had shopped—and it was a vindication that it had not been a dream.  I knew exactly how he felt.  All that time had passed and growing up in Australia seemed like a dream.  I would tell people I grew up there, went to secondary school, Uni and worked in my first job—but still it felt like a dream.  Or a fabrication.  But being there, I remembered so much: the bowler hats, blazers; part of the school uniforms, the glorious birds, parks and museums on every corner.  Friendly open people who were eager to know our story.  And I even had a high school reunion with 6 girls, all grown women of course.  But they remembered me, and I remembered them.  And it was just like we were 14 years old again.

Australia was a wonderful adventure. It deserves its own essay.  But this is about Bathroom Renovation. 

We got home.  Many, many hours later, although we arrived in LA before we left Sydney.  It’s a time travel thing, for those of you who’ve never crossed major time zones. 

Staggering up the 32 steps to our front door, we were exhausted, but thrilled to be home.  My own bathroom.  A shower.

The first clue that something was amiss was the gaping hole in the new front door.  Not large enough for one of those gang-members, but maybe his automatic weapon, although I have never actually measured one.  The hallway was covered with white powder.  Not cocaine, my friends.  We are talking construction powder.  I am not conversant in construction terminology, but underneath the powder was dangerous-looking machines and piles of tiles, wood, boxes, paint, brushes and . . . well, I think you get the idea.  The bathroom, my bathroom, well it was sans toilet, sans sink, sans bathtub.

 In other words, a cavernous hole.

Here’s the thing I learned about old houses and remodeling.  Once you start, you uncover decades of neglect.  And so it was with our home.  But please, don’t judge me.  I understand there were terrible, terrible things going on in the world during the time our house was upside down.  A woman drove off a cliff with her 4 children in her car.  Three of them died, along with the mother, and the only remaining live child, who swam to safety, felt it was somehow his fault.  Christchurch had an earthquake which seemed quite terrible until Japan’s, where many thousands died.  Thousands more were dislocated and probably traumatized for life. 

So, I realize this bathroom thing was not a major big deal.  Sure, I shared my husband’s Bad Bathroom for 3 weeks.  I consoled myself by having my hair washed and blow-dried by a lovely local woman who gave me a good price for my weekly trek.  Our marriage survived.

And now, I have this new bathroom.  Here’s the thing of it.  It is a totally different bathroom.  I don’t always embrace change easily.  At first, I thought the bathtub was too big (it is quite, quite huge but brags a Jacuzzi which we have yet to baptize.)  The bottle of champagne is in the fridge waiting for the day my husband and I climb into it.  I worry about my flawed body being seen so close up.  I think water makes you look fatter, doesn’t it?  It kind of lifts things up that maybe shouldn’t be lifted?  Although at my age, that could also work in my favor.  I’m not too sure about this, but my husband doesn’t seem to be worried.  I have no room for my Yoga mat anymore, and need to find a new location to stretch.  But the bathroom is a work of art, and besides that, it is very solid.  The toilet doesn’t move every time you get up or down.  The walls are now covered by large tiles framed with smaller ones that look like stained glass windows.  It’s really nice.  The sink is a clear glass bowl rimmed with green.  I never saw a sink like that before.  I was afraid to use it at first, but I’m getting used to it.  My husband made sure I had good lighting for when I put on my make-up.  I put a lot of creative energy into that process.  I’ve always liked using makeup, the shading and blending of things that end up making you into a work of art.  The whole cabinet is new with drawers that miraculously close by themselves.  I hung up my photos, and the newly framed Gauguin, ‘Nevermore’.

I learned some things during this remodeling process. The world can be a very dangerous place, but you can make your bathroom safer.  Sometimes, doing it right costs more and takes more time, but in the end it’s worth it.  I learned about patience, embracing change, appreciating artistry, and how feeling safe also has to do with the people who love you. And, most importantly, sharing the Bad Bathroom does not herald the end of a good marriage.

Learning to Blog

This is me testing out my blogging prowess.  Just want to figure out what to do before I get fancy.  So, is this working?