OUT OF CONTROL

So much has happened in the last week or so that I've hit 'overload' more than a few times.  Thank my higher power (and yours, just in case we have the same one) that CB is on the way here from L.A. tomorrow morning; she's doing the 911 thang and helping me through this hot mess aka home rehab. 

She moved heaven and earth aka her jam-packed schedule so she could be here this week, instead of two weeks from now. I said, with a wail in my voice the other day, "If only you were here now..." and, amazing best friend that she is, CB will be at my side...taking over, geting this house in order, ship-shaping the troops, and creating (and maintaining) the schedule calendar so things happen, when they are supposed to happen..or sooner.

This has been a critical week. Crates and crates of kitchen cabinets arrived last week.  I wasn't told by the delivery men until they rang my doorbell that, for insurance reasons, thy would not bring the boxes inside the house. They would drop 'em at the door or bring them into a garage, but that's it. If Handyman hadn't been there...and with his dolly...I would still be sitting outside of a rapidly bowing porch, day after day, with a toilet plunger masquerading as a shotgun, guarding the cardboard boxes. 

Thankfully, Handyman spoke his charming fluent Spanish and ingratiated himself into their hearts and got them to help move the bigger boxes into the house (with his help). He moved the rest himself with the dolly into the living room. 

For my part, I paced and sweated on his behalf and made a pitcher of iced tea. I know my limitations. I, uh, had just gone to the gym earlier that day, anyway; I was all about the Feng Shui. I had to make sure those 108 cardboard boxes were in JUST the right place for the friggin' WEEK it would take before the cabinet installers are here (this Wednesday through Friday).

Kitchen appliances are arriving this weekend. Gone are the Harvest Gold stove, the Avocado Green refrigerator and ancient, probably radiation-emitting microwave circa 1968 from Sears; I'm only slightly exaggerating. I'm still using the Black & Decker under-cabinet coffeemaker that Mom bought in '83...not kidding, she saved everything, including the sales ticket. After it leaves here post-renovation, it's heading to The Smithsonian. (Me, not long after.)

In prepping for the new-fangled kitchen appliances (with three-prong cords!), I accidentally, but most thankfully before the house might have burned down or some such imagined disaster, discovered that the a/c company improperly installed an electric box that wasn't grounded or bonded. Not only is it against code, it could have fried me and burned the house down. Of course, I'm now in a tussle with the company about that while, at the same time, I've had to bring in an electrical contractor to save the day (at $$, of course).  

I feel like I've been suckerpunched...I've lost a sizable amount of money on the bad electrical work, and now I have to spend double that to fix it...plus, prep this old place for new-fangled appliances. My mom barely used one wall a/c, the TV and a lamp on at the same time.  Me, you know I'm gonna have on the computer, four TV, eighteen lights, the microwave, the washer and dryer, four clocks all at once...so I gotta bring the house up to date.

Handyman & ViceGrip have been working uber-hard and (it seems) round the clock to keep on schedule...laying the tile (that's all that's getting laid, alas), grouting, plastering the walls, you name it...the last of the grout is going on tonight and the kitchen drywall will be covered with Magic Marker slashes with diagrams of the cabinets and about-to-arrive appliances so the electricians have caveman-like drawings to guide them at 8AM tomorrow.  And that means, I have to get up at 7:45AM...that's really the worst part of it.

Despite the housebound drama ("I Am a Shut-In!"), I did have escape this weekend.  MS invited me for an encore at The Art Institute to take the Hopper exhibit.  As I've posted earlier, Edward Hopper is my fave American artist (save for CB), and I savored his work on my last jaunt there with MS; however, there is so much to see (and, frankly, MS and I talk so much) that we had the urge, the drive, the need, to see more than the six paintings (kidding!) we saw the first time. The second visit was as powerful as the first, if not more so, and I came away more of a Hopper man than I had even been before...I am now compelled to learn more about the man who creates such moody, introspective, haunting images of solitary, isolated, lonely, perhaps tragic people...or, sunny landscapes which still seem...morose and foreboding. I said to MS during our tour, I bet he is the kind of guy who jumps out of Japanese clown cars and wears a Whoopie cushion...he must be a life-of-the-party guy who spills his sadness and feelings of separateness into his work...now, am I talking about him or myself...?

My elderly neighbors, Catherine and her husband, invited me to their nearby Lutheran church for Mass. It was "Bring a Heathen" -- actually, "Bring a Friend" -- to Church Day, and so they invited me and I was tickled that they asked.  I had never been to a Lutheran service, and I really enjoyed it. I loved the fact that the pastor was married and had a wife and three kids...they were all in the front row, uh, pew, and beamed at Pastor Daddy. It was wonderful to see the connection of church, family and members of the church together. 85-year old hubby-to-Catherine slammed his fist on the table after service during get-acquainted-breakfast after, and said, "We had a lady Pastor and she was a pistol -- but she died in her sleep, and that was that."  As a Catholic, it was wonderful to see a Pastor with a family and so connected with his congregation and his family together; it would be spectacular, IMO, if the Catholic Church followed suit.

This from a staunchly Catholic family (I'm reformed) with an uncle who is a practicing priest and a deceased great uncle who reigned as a cardinal. My uncle had a female "housekeeper" who traveled with him, including holidays at our house, when I was a kid, and when the first one died, my uncle got himself a younger babe, a gal who cooked, cleaned and...whatever...he was a licensed pilot in the air, a hellion on Earth with his souped-up Cadillac that never seemed to go less than 80 MPH...

End of Catholic Church rant...

Phase II...at warp speed...starts tomorrow with CB's arrival...hang on - !

I'M HOME

Many changes have occurred in the last two weeks or so since my last post. My social life is on the upswing and for that I'm very grateful. I don't feel so tightly wound as I have been...not that I've had "romance" or "recreation," but I've gone out a few times with friends in the last couple of weeks (in addition to 12-step meetings and outings afterwards).  

After one 12-step meeting, three guys invited me to nearby Crew, a popular gay/straight sports bar in Uptown...I felt like a puppy out of a cage. It was so exhilarating to be out of the house, among my fellow gays and socializing with dozens and dozens of men (and women) of all types.  The enormous screen projecting a basketball game didn't grab my attention for more than a few seconds, but my neck got quite the workout scanning the room and the men.  

As I've said to some L.A. friends, there might be more bona-fide "knockouts" in Los Angeles in terms of looks and muscle, but, that said, I find Chicago/Midwestern men to be infinitely more appealing, interesting, sexy and multi-dimensional. Men in Southern California are so consciously aware of being attractive or wanting to be perceived as attractive, that it becomes a studied landscape instead of a breathing, vital human being. I remember eight years or so ago, when I went to Wales and Scotland for the first time, I found the men to be the most attractive I had ever seen...mostly, because they were so unaware or so unconcerned with their good looks and even the 'lesser gods' among them were magnetic because they didn't have a studied or put-upon sense of self or masculinity; it was the real deal, and from the land of tanning beds, steroids, personal trainers, Botox, facial fillers and hair plugs, it was incredibly refreshing. The same is true for Chicago. Men might not hit the gym every day, they might carry a few extra pounds because of winter hibernation, but their ease within themselves, being comfortable in their own skin, and their 'take it or leave it' attitude, devoid of preening and plucking, gets me hot under the..collar.  Thankfully, I havent' seen a 'murse' aka manpurse anywhere...!

This past Sunday, MS and her hubby and I had brunch with one of my oldest friends, JK, and her lover, MD. I've known JK since high school (!) and we even 'dated' for some time. Since those long-ago years, we both crossed the fence to the other side and shed our straight skins, as it were.  She, unlike me, alas, has the gift for attracting the right person and sustaining long-term relationships (and her partner is a gem and a pip of a gal, as they used to say).  We met a few weeks ago, the three of us, and carried on like magpies, and this recent Sunday brunch at the fabu Wishbone on Lincoln, was all the more so, because I was able to introduce MS and her hubby to JJ and MD...when worlds collide, old and new friends meet and new bonds are formed.  

On Friday, MS is meeting for the first time another friend of mine, GW, here at the house (to catch up on the tornado of renovation afoot).  GW is also stopping by to visit Handyman, as it was she who introduced me to "my Polish brother" when I kick-started the renovation at the end of February; my gosh, it seems like six months ago!  Handyman is also bringing his sheepdog that day (our first introduction) so I can practice having a pet at least for five hours.  From there, MS and I are going to an art exhibit opening which involves my AA sponsor, so it will be yet another case of integrating the various pieces of my new life in Chicago.  

I'm planning a trip to L.A. in mid-May. I'm looking forward to it. I have a couple of appointments and I want to clear out my storage facility and ship boxes of archive materials here.  After all, what is this near-empty basement for, if not to save me $115 a month in storage fees?  I have the ongoing dilemma of what to do with my 12" LP's...I've had some of them since I was a kid, many from in my teens, and while I don't play 'em and really don't need 'em, I can't think of parting with them...at least yet. A dear friend is holding them for me, but I really at some point soon have to ask myself, do I want to pay storage year after  year for things I never open, never use and never will need again, just for sentimental value?  I might be able to sell them, but I'm not sure there is a wide market for 560 Judy Garland albums, MGM movie soundtracks and scratchy LPs of Margaret Whiting, Ella, Doris Day, Billie, and the cast albums of No, No, Nanette, Irene, Good News and a warped copy of Barbra's "Stoney End."  

I'm looking forward to seeing my friends in L.A., of course, and it will be interesting to be there as a visitor and not as a resident. Today, the weather was glorious (there's that word again for Chicago weather!) and it hit a high of 71 degrees!  You sort of get selective amnesia (the way I do when I go on another bad online date after swearing them off four days earlier) and the snow and sleet and frostbite and shoveling sort of blurs into sunlight hitting your face.  At this moment, there is no place I'd rather be than here in Chicago.  I notice subtle changes in me: I've gotten used to the local '773' area code and when I call friends in L.A., I sometimes forget to dial '323' or '818' -- yesterday, for a moment, I forgot the phone number of an old friend I was calling on my cell phone; I had to shut the phone, look up his number on my computer...

This has been the most uprooting, life-changing time of my life, the last six months, but, even at its most rigorously challenging and exhausting moments, I wouldn't change a thing.  For the first time in a very long time, I know I'm where I should be...and where I want to be.  

On Saturday, one of the neighbors invited me to a pancake breakfast social at the local church to be held next weekend. It sounds like fun. And how nice, how flattering, to be asked, to be included. Another neighbor, 85 year-old Catherine, next door, saw me outside the other day walking to my car (with a tile sample in my hand, of course) and put her arm around me and said, "Do you have plans the last Sunday of this month?" (Pat, pat on my back, hug, hug.) "No, I don't think so...what do you have in mind?" "You are my friend, aren't you?" I said, "Um, of course I am...why?" She demurred, "My church is having a 'bring a friend to church day' on that Sunday and I'd like to bring you....will you come?" I said yes.

I'm on the church and pancake circuit...and that's the only kind of circuit party I know these days...and it's just fine with me. Especially when it's all you can eat for five bucks. 

FEELIN' LIKE A MULLION

I've been remiss at creating entries here and I apologize. This house rehab is even more grueling, perhaps, than the OTHER kind of rehab...maybe, well, not really. I don't know if I have ever been so consistently weary day after day.  I hit the rumpled bed, wake up after six hours of sleep...and it happens all over again. Six days a week. I'm thinking of offering Handyman double pay if he DOESN'T work on Saturdays.  

I don't mean that. Not only is he doing an incredible job, he continues to be my 'shield' and pitbull from shady contractors and salespeople; he calls me his "Irish brother" and he's teaching me Polish words and I help with some daunting English words he hasn't quite nailed...although I find his accent to be endearing and he certainly has no trouble communicating. He speaks Polish, English, Spanish, German, Greek and two other languages. In direct contrast, it's taken me four days to properly pronounce the Polish word for "fast." (The irony of that is not lost on me...)

Since this IS my first rodeo in terms of renovating a home, as it were, I guess it's more stressful, demanding and tiring than usual. And, perhaps, all the more so, factoring in the added element that I'm reworking the house that my mom lived in for 25 years...well, that can be a kick in the stomach in that, at every turn, I'm confronted with memories of her and the happy years she spent in this house...and me, as a frequent visitor during that time when I trekked from L.A. to Chicago for her birthday and holidays. 

The house, as you can see from pics posted here, is down to the bones. This is bunker living at its most basic. A foxhole is looking like upscale digs to me right now. I've got one bed, one chair, a kitchen table with three chairs and two bedroom dressers for some of my clothes; the rest of my stuff is in the basement. I'm still living in limbo and it's only going to get worse. 

In about three weeks, I'll have to temporarily move out when the hardwood floors will be sanded and treated, plus during the bathroom gutting when there will be no shower or commode.  I'll shower at the gym or depend, um, on the kindness of strangers. But how could that be? I haven't much socialized since this started, nor have I had a date or, well, you know...

My social life has largely tanked since I haven't been out and about to meet, greet or glad hand (...) and I don't expect an uptick for six to eight weeks, when the bulk of the renovations are done. I'm grateful that I have the marvelous MS here in Chicago, the fabu CB long distance, my LA friends via phone and email, my sponsor, my 12-stepping friends and friends here from the old days to bolster me right now. I haven't had the time or energy to cultivate new friendships or relationships, as much as I would like to. It's just the way it is; I can't complain. It's part of the price of admission for a new house and a new life. 

"This, too, shall pass" is my mantra (one of 'em) these days. 

It IS exhausting driving across town pricing windows, tile and doors and getting building supplies here and there, being surrounded by buzz saws (so it sounds) as central a/c is installed for ten straight days, but I know I'd get zero empathy from most anyone working a 'real job' all day (or all night). That said, I'm more tired at the end of the day than I've ever been in my entire life; could it be that being, um, in the ballpark of 40 (that one went over the fence into Peoria, if truth be told and I won't) has impacted my energy level? Egad. I can't go there....

I'm not complaining -- just observing, mind you -- when I say that I am focused entirely on the house right now...my days are spent running errands for Handyman to get building supplies, shopping for doors and tiles and grout and whatnot, getting bids for this and that.  By the time Handyman and ViceGrip, his new assistant (neuBluto is gone, more about that later) leave at 8PM, I barely have time to grab some food someplace down the street (I have no microwave, sink or oven any longer) before CB and I have our long-distance nightly wrap-up of what happened today and what's on the agenda for tomorrow and later in the week, or the scope of the entire project.

The definition for me of friendship in its purest, most loving and generous form, is CB and her taking on this project, particularly long distance (until she arrives in Chicago the first week of May) with her in L.A. and me (and the house!) in Chicago. The time, the hours, the energy, the talent and heart she pours into it on a daily, no, hourly, basis can't be properly expressed. My best friend for 25 years, she and I have seen each other through so much and she has taught me so much about life and friendship. She has been there for me at my worst and has championed me at my best. She loved me when I didn't love myself, and we have a bond that I cherish. I am her greatest champion and she is my greatest inspiration.

When I left L.A. she was the one person I missed the most; yet our friendship is so strong, that the distance has not displaced our friendship.  I do know she has given of herself 200% as the designer in my home renovation, while also in the midst of an enormously high-profile and demanding gig (a big-budget, prestigious production) and has turned down work -- including a TV series -- to create this new home for me.  She is one of the most talented, in-demand designers around and I'm lucky to have her, as my designer, and, above all, as my friend. During the scope of this house rehab, I have met the challenge more often than not (I hope) but I am painfully aware that I have faltered more than a few times -- but she's been there, from start to finish. She is a designer extraordinaire and friend second to none.

I mean to blog every other day, but it's just not in me right now -- even though I am fervently committed to doing so. And then when I don't blog each day or so, the topics I want to cover stack up like delayed planes at Chicago during an ice storm, and I put it off even more because it seems so daunting. I've gone beyond writer's block. I am awash in writer's remorse.

Yesterday, I called my AA sponsor, the inimitable MO. (And he has my m.o., that's for sure). We speak (most) every day and try to see each other for in-person pow-wows about every two weeks. He asked how the house rehab was going, and I blathered on about trying to find an in-stock awning window for the master bath. I stopped and said, OMG, I used to talk about going window shopping. Now, I'm actually going WINDOW shopping! 

I told him I was gleeful when I found an in-stock Pella all-wood, aluminum backed bathroom window for only $139!  Pella, they say, is the best, but it's so pricey. I've become, ouch, One Happy Pella.  And I can't stop singing, "I'm Just a Pella, a Pella With an Umbrella..." -- that vintage Irving Berlin song from the Garland/Astaire MGM musical, "Easter Parade." Clearly, this sleep deprivation has taken its toll.  (Not to mention I haven't had time or energy to go to the gym in two weeks...and I must buff up again for my spring debut in Chicago...)

MO laughed when I passionately told him about snaring the Pella (and canceling the special order at Home Depot for the same window at the cost of $479) and he said, "It's funny what happens when you renovate a house for the first time. You get so involved and detailed about things you knew NOTHING about or had NO interest in six months ago."

So true! 

I had never HEARD the word "mullion" before... and now, I know (thanks to CB), that I don't want too many mullions on my windows in the house. And yet, I've got 'em. 

Several days ago, some guy saw my dating profile online and sent me his number. I called and it turns out, his full-time career is rehabbing houses! We met for coffee and I spent over an hour drilling him (not in the good way, alas) about central a/c, local electricians, the pros and cons of cork floors vs. porcelain tiles for my kitchen. Apparently, he didn't find my line of conversation particularly hot or inviting and I never heard from him again...except when he called to cancel a getting together a few days later -- to come by and see the house on Handyman's day off. I had fleeting fantasies of hot sex on the unfinished floors surrounded by power tools. I guess he was more concerned about splinters or something. That, as they say, was that. 

My dating drought continues unabated. 

Last night, I wearily staggered down to the local coffee shop at the corner for what was a passing resemblance to dinner. It was about 9PM. The lights in the restaurant resembled an X-ray and it wasn't flattering to me, the big-haired, fading "Flo"- type waitress or the alarmingly obese male patron across from me, shoveling down one dinner roll after the next, like he was popping breath mints. I called MS on my cell phone and said, my gosh, it's so empty and bleak and morose in here, I felt like I belonged in Edward Hopper's "Nighthalks." 

The analogy was particularly relevant for us, because MS had invited me to a member's only morning at The Art Institute a few days earlier.  We spent a delightful morning (before the mad crush) sauntering through Hopper's stunning artistic career. I deadpanned to MS, "I didn't realize Hopper had done so many paintings. I thought he had only done two. 'Nighthawks' and the sequel, the second 'Nighthalks' with Elvis, Marilyn, James Dean and Humphrey Bogart."

We soaked in the exhibit (it was pouring outside).  Taking in each painting, I have never seen so many lonely, depressed, displaced and doomed people in one place -- except for AA meetings. 

It was absolutely fascinating and Hopper remains (next to CB) my favorite American artist. MS and I vowed to return and see the exhibit again; it requires more than one visit to properly absorb and appreciate the wealth and breath of his talent. 

Postscript: NeuBluto is out of the house and out of my life, but he had a surprisingly positive effect on my relationship with Handyman. NeuBluto outed me to Handyman, and it's all good.  Not only is Handyman gay-friendly, he wants to introduce me to his gay Polish cousin. I couldn't make this stuff up. And, luckily, I don't have to...

More about THAT later...!