Fixers Anonymous

I’m Jill and I live in a dump.  I hate to admit it but I’m over my head and need help.  Today I’m ready to face up to what living in this fixer has done to me.

First, my face: There’s something about a big red rash on your face that gets people’s attention.  People look you in the eye, and face, when they ask, “How are you?”  They keep looking, nodding their heads while you blurt out an extremely fast 105-word one-sentence answer.

Fast talking is the second red flag.  I get stressed and I race through complex and compound sentences like I’m being paid by the word.  I know nobody can keep up, as most people can’t keep up with me when I’m not race-talking and not stressed.  Knowing nobody understands what I’m saying just makes me talk faster.

I don’t want a third red flag.  The rash is red enough.  Charlie says, “What can I do to help?”

“Get help,” I say.  “We can’t do it alone.  We need a higher power.  We need subs.”

Subs cost money so Saturday morning, we signed our equity away.  The loan officer did some creative math and increased our line of credit enough to ensure we’ll get out of this house with exactly what we put into it.  We’re not in California, where houses in my Mom’s zip code increased in value 137% last year.  We’re happy with high single digit increases.  We’re happy with any increase at all.

“Make me a list,” Charlie says.  “I’ll get bids and sub out whatever you decide.”

I love this guy.  I tell him what to do and he does it.  It’s great being married to a guy who hates thinking about money so much he begs me to do all the spending.  I didn’t even have to train him.

Giving up on doing all the work ourselves should make me feel better, but like anything, the effects aren’t immediate.  It’ll feel better when I’ve sat down with the remodeling schedule and budget and play for a few hours.  There’s nothing like money in the bank and a spreadsheet on the screen to give you hope.

Right now, though, I can’t sit still.  It’s Sunday so I’m trying to read the paper but I can’t concentrate.  My mind is racing faster than I’m talking and that’s pretty fast.  I need to do something.

I’m not alone.  “I want to get started, okay?” Charlie says.  “We’re getting help.  It’ll be okay.”

“Okay.”

My face hurts.  Instead of thinking how much faster the house will get done by subbing out the icky jobs, I think of all the work I haven’t done.  I’m editing a book for my church and if you ever want to feel guilty, do work for a church.  You have a hard time weaseling out of things.

Anyone who works for the church starts their weekend the second the last service ends.  That’s the start of their weekend and, if I want peace, the beginning of my week.  I’ve been waiting for an empty church so I don’t have to have face to rash-face contact.  If I time it right, I can work in a big building full of finish carpentry and good thoughts leftover from the last service.  Working all alone is as relaxing to me as Yoga.

I waited until I was sure the church was empty.  It’s a beautiful sunny day, so everyone should be off having a great time somewhere else.  Not this day.  The building was full of people talking and laughing and being so damned happy.  Take it somewhere else, I thought.  This is a place of worship and I’ve got a rash.

I did my best to avoid eye contact.  I proactively mumbled, “Hi,” to people in my way and ran off in the opposite direction.  I was doing great and the place was clearing out nicely.  Then the executive Pastor, my boss, came out of nowhere.  He’s the kind of guy who listens so well you say way too much, even when you’re not stressed. 

“How are you?”

That’s all it took.  My mouth was off and running, my brain a lap behind.

“My pregnant step-daughter, Jenn, mouthed off at work and got her hours cut, which would have happened anyway since they hired illegal immigrants to do her job at half her pay, which means she can’t save up to move out with or without her druggie ex-boyfriend who she calls every day even though he treats her like crap and only talks to her because he feels guilty for dumping her after he got her pregnant, so she sleeps wherever she can in our completely demolished, half-finished house which is stressing me out so much that I’ve got this big rash on my face,” I said, then took a breath, embarrassed.  “Um, uh, how are you?”

As is the case with good people in the helping professions, he turned the conversation back to me.  I’ve found when you don’t want to stand there forever talking to someone like me, complimenting them is a quick way to end the conversation and move on to more important things, like lunch. 

My boss did exactly as I would have done, had I encountered someone as obviously stressed as me.  It worked.  I shut up and moved on.  Now he could go have his lunch with slow-talking normal-looking people.

Before I could bump into someone else with less people skills, I raced upstairs and out of the way.  I hid out in PromiseLand, one of the children’s rooms which doubles as my corner office. 

You can’t help but feel good in here.  There are happy children’s drawings all over the primary-colored walls and craft project supplies on every countertop.  One whole wall is filled with windows which face a nearby freeway.  My thoughts stop racing as soon as I watch the cars go by.  The faster they go, the calmer I get.  I have no idea what time it is in here or how long I’ve been staring, but my freeway yoga worked.  I’m ready to go home to life in Kosovo.    

I love pulling up the driveway when Charlie’s been working.  He’s working on the deck in front, so there’s immediate gratification right through the windshield.  I can see his progress even before I get out of the car.

I can see other progress, too.  The General, my very driven fifteen year-old daughter, is out in front with a bunch of neighbor kids working in the yard.  My yard.  My project. 

The work I haven’t been able to do for a month is being done by kids.  They’ve been doing it as I stared at cars on the freeway.  This must be helping my rash.  It feels like I’m cheating.  I know I’ll get credit for this work since I’m the landscape person.  I wasn’t even here.

Charlie has the neighbor kid using the miter saw to cut his deck boards.  The neighbor kid has been out here working for Charlie since early this morning.  He never stops and he does whatever Charlie says, even using the miter saw unsupervised.  This doesn’t seem like something I’d want to watch, so I go stand over by the General.

“I can’t believe you were paying attention when I told you over a month ago, what I planned to do here,” I said.  She did everything exactly as I asked.  I wasn’t even here to nag.  I’ve become used to nagging skateboarders when they sneak out after an hour or less.

“She’s been working since you left,” Charlie says.  “The little neighbor girl came over with her pink shovel and helped her spread river rock.  The General’s a good delegator.” 

This explains why the General wasn’t sweaty or dirty.  She’s learned the art of subbing out at an early age.  This gives me hope she’ll never get over her head in fixer hell like her fast-talking rash-faced Mom.

“I’m getting Hollister pants and a sweater,” the General says.  “You can take a picture of me wearing my new clothes, standing in front of all the work I did here.  You owe me a ton of money.”

I’d pay subs in Hollister pants and sweaters any day.  I don’t need a line of credit for that.

“Where’s Jenn?” I asked.  When she’s not working, she has nothing to do.  You want to have something to do when you live in a house like this.  Staring at the walls is a really bad idea.

“At work,” Charlie said.  “One of the illegal immigrants didn’t show up for work so they called her.  At least she’s needed.”

“You owe your Mom three bucks,” the neighbor kid says to the General.  “Charlie said.”

The General looks at me for a moment then gets back to work.

“You owe your Mom three bucks.”

“You owe your Mom three bucks.”

“You owe your Mom three bucks.”

The General figures he may never stop.  He’s that obnoxious.  “Yeah,” she says, not looking up.  We have no idea what he’s talking about.

Charlie decides the mood calls for a little Queen and puts on a CD.  He tells the neighbor kid, “Got a girlfriend?”

“Not yet.”

“Learn how to dance.  Girls love a guy who can dance.  I was real popular in high school because I was a good dancer.

“Even I don’t believe you.” The neighbor kid says.

“Here,” Charlie says. “Hold this.”  If he doesn’t have the neighbor kid constantly busy, the neighbor kid will drive us all insane.  The neighbor kids may be free labor, but there’s still a price to pay.  Sometimes it’s work to keep someone working.

At dusk, the neighbor kid’s Mom comes over with a plateful of caramel apples.  “This is for keeping him busy,” she says.  “Thank you.  You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.  “Charlie worked his butt off.”  I notice my talking isn’t rushed.  She smiled and left without mentioning my rashy face. 

Acknowledging that I’m over my head and need help with this fixer is the first step.  There are eleven more, I’m told. 

I’ll do anything to get rid of a rash.

A little help? [] 8:30:50 PM