If You Were Here (18 page)

Authors: Jen Lancaster

Tags: #Chicago, #Humorous, #Family Life, #General, #Suburbs, #Women Authors, #Illinois, #Fiction, #Remodeling, #Dwellings

BOOK: If You Were Here

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Mac and I reached an uneasy truce, because I desperately hate being mad at anyone, particularly the person who’s most important to me in the whole world. Mac was unbelievably contrite and helped me piece together a rudimentary work space until my new furniture arrives. So instead of tapping away on my desktop with the thirty-inch UltraSharp monitor while reclining in a posture-fit, multiadjustable Aeron chair, I’ve been parked in an ass-flattening metal folding chair, squinting at an old laptop that’s sitting on top of a door supported by moving boxes on either side. The only way I’ve consoled myself is that the whole setup feels vaguely Amish.

All of that being said, one would think Mac might hang up his tool belt, but no. Then while I was out today, Mac decided to try to replace another toilet. He said he wanted to surprise me.

When I came home to find a second toilet shattered on the floor of the opposite end of the library—this time powder blue—trust me, I was surprised.

The weather’s warming up and the house is stuffy and full of the stench of failure, so I’m going around opening windows. This will give me something to do with my hands, considering they seem to want to wrap themselves around Mac’s neck at the moment.

Mac is right on my heels. “I said I’m sorry. I really thought I had it right this time, but toilets are a lot heavier than you’d think, especially the older ones.”

I can’t even look at him, because I’m afraid I’ll lose my temper. “Uh-huh.”

He continues. “I mean, I did all kinds of research on the Internet, and I referenced a couple of plumbing manuals, and other than dropping it, I did everything right. I blame the floors. I suspect they can’t handle a live load.”

“Mmm,” I intone through closed lips.

“Listen, you can’t be mad at me. I was just trying to help, and theoretically, everything should have worked.”

We’re in the living room now and I’m trying to get the big window open, although it appears to be a bit stuck. “Here’s the thing, Mac. Your problem is that you’re too theoretical.”

“How so?”

I throw my weight into opening the window and it only budges a few inches. Argh. “Meaning you’ve spent your whole career designing computer networks but—Jesus, what’s up with this window?—but I bet you’d be hard-pressed to actually build one yourself. Same thing with the plumbing. You absolutely understand the theory behind putting in a new toilet—Argh. Come on!” I step back, inspect my progress, and then throw my shoulder into getting it lifted.

I continue. “You have a profound understanding of the macro level of everything—networks, plumbing, weaponry, et cetera. But on the micro level, you’re lacking. I suspect you don’t even know what it is you don’t know. There was probably a small installation facet you missed—
Damn. It. Open. Please
.—and that one tiny microdetail is probably the difference between my happily reading
Us
magazine on the john and having the commodes rain down in my office.”

I begin to slam my whole side into the window while hoisting it up. “Want some help?” he offers.

“I’ve got it, thank you. You’re like those guys who—
stuck hard, argh
—are so convinced they know where they’re going—
oof
—that they refuse to ask for directions and—” I give the window one more tremendous shove and I’m suddenly enveloped by a warm spring breeze.

The window is open.

And by “open,” I mean “lying in the sticker bushes outside.”

I’ve somehow managed to knock the entire window out of its frame and onto the ground.

“Oh, my God, Mac! Help me! Shit! What did I do? Mac, can you help me get this damn thing back in?”

Mac moseys over to inspect the damage. “Well . . . theoretically, I understand why the window fell out, but in practice, I may simply not know what I’m doing. You see, on a macro level I have an idea of where you went wrong, but on a micro level . . .”

When we try to reinstall the window, it basically shatters into a million little pieces.

You know what? I can’t take this.

I’m calling Babcia.

Chapter Ten

MUCH ADO ABOUT DRAWER PULLS

“You’ve got six weeks.”

“I need more like three months.”

“You’ve got six weeks.”

I’m on the phone with my literary agent, Natalie, and we’re discussing my deadline for
Rumspringa-ding-ding
. I’m critically behind schedule because I sold the book before I actually wrote it.
⁹⁹The manuscript is due in two weeks, but Nat was able to push that due date back till the end of June. Normally it takes me six to eight months to complete a novel, and at this point in the process, I should be finished writing. This is when I’m usually scrubbing the manuscript for errors and word choice.

Unfortunately, I’ve been somewhat distracted for the past few months, and most of what I’ve written is . . . craptacular. According to my niece Claire, I’m way off on my content. She tells me teenage girls don’t spend much of their free time discussing drawer pulls, and by “much,” she means “any.” But my God, have you
been
to a custom cabinetry showroom lately? Not only does every choice come in a minimum of nine different metal finishes, like polished nickel, polished chrome, satin nickel, satin chrome, oil-rubbed bronze, antique bronze, pewter, wrought iron, and stainless steel, but they’re also available in tons of other material, like art glass and granite and porcelain.

And shapes? Can we talk about shapes for a minute? There are bail pulls and cup pulls and bar pulls and finger pulls and pendant pulls! How about knobs? Don’t even get me started on knobs! What’s your poison? A square knob? A T-knob? Maybe a nice oval knob?

And all of that’s before you even come close to making a decision on the cabinet itself. Do you want them stained? Glazed? Painted? Would you like an arched cabinet? A raised-panel cabinet? Beveled? Unbeveled? Oak? Maple? Rubberwood? Laminate? Stock? Semicustom? Custom? Framed? Unframed?
Argh!

I told Claire that high school is easy; interior design is hard. I argued that kids should start plotting out their dream kitchens now, so they know what they want by the time they turn thirty-five, ergo Miriam and Rebecca’s fourteen-page countertop-finish manifesto.
¹⁰⁰Claire told me that my book was giving her “boredom cancer,” and that’s when I knew I had to scrap everything and start fresh.

I put my head down on my desk/door and exhale heavily. “Okay, I’ll do what I can.”

Natalie’s frustration is obvious. “Mia, what is going on? Blowing a deadline isn’t like you. I don’t have to tell you that if you don’t get this book in soon, you’re going to cut the whole prepublicity push short. Long-lead magazines won’t receive review copies. You’re essentially hobbling yourself if you don’t get on this. . . .”

I inadvertently wince when Nat says “hobbling.” All authors do. I mean, we’ve all read/seen Stephen King’s
Misery
, and we all remember when Annie Wilkes hobbled Paul Sheldon to keep him prisoner. Freaking terrifying. Every time I log on to my Facebook fan page and see someone calling herself my “number one fan,” I feel around my desk to make sure my gun’s still there.
¹⁰¹

“. . . so I want you to put aside whatever you’re going through and concentrate, because, P.S., you don’t get paid until you’re done.”

I’m too wiped out to tell her that Mac and I spent the past three days hauling wheelbarrows full of debris down our tenth-of-a-mile curved driveway because the Dumpster people left it in the wrong place. Nat doesn’t want to discuss the kitchen cabinet that fell out of the wall, taking out the dishwasher and damaging the oven; nor is she interested in my frenetic rush to prepare for Babcia’s visit.

All Nat wants to hear is that I’m on it.

“I’m on it,” I lie.

“Good. Now, while I’ve got you on the phone, I have some interesting news. I got a call from a scout at HBO. The guy’s a producer and his kid made him read your books. Sounds like he’s interested in pursuing an option.”

A healthy option check would go a long way toward easing my mind right now. With all the mishaps, things are getting too tight for comfort. Mac’s set the deductible on our homeowner’s insurance so high that all the repair costs are coming directly out of pocket. In his defense, a lower monthly payment sounded smart; he couldn’t have foreseen it raining toilets in my office. Prevented it? Yes. Foreseen it? No.

So, the out-of-pocket expenses, plus what we’ve budgeted for a full kitchen rehab, plus replacing all the bathroom fixtures, plus all the petition-based repairs we’ve made have gone through a huge chunk of our cushion. I mean, we’ve already spent a mint just because of the mailbox.

That damn mailbox has become the bane of my existence. When we moved in, the mailbox was housed in a big, crumbing brick-and-mortar pillar. The masonry seemed too far gone to try to repair, so Mac and I spent days swinging sledgehammers to bring it down, learning the hard way that “looks crumbling” doesn’t mean “is crumbling.”

The whole time we slaved away out there, Lululemon and Elbow Patches kept walking by us really slowly. After a while, we stopped even trying to say hello.

I found the most beautiful mailbox on eBay. It’s a tall, red iron box with separate slots for mail and newspapers. According to the auction listing, it’s an antique from India. If you squint at it just right, you might think it’s an overgrown fire hydrant. I love it and it’s unique and I actually spent a good deal of money on it. I thought it would really personalize the front yard—I mean, who doesn’t like objets d’art from exotic locales? This is the first piece of art I ever bought, and I assumed it would be a nice gesture to share with the rest of the neighborhood.

I assumed wrong.

So very wrong.

First came the petition, which we chose to ignore, as it was signed by three families with enormous bass fish–shaped mailboxes, one with what looks like a birdhouse with a mail slot, and four with varying degrees of crumbled masonry posts. The only difference between my mailbox and theirs was that mine was beautiful. (Also, I didn’t plant the ornamental purple cabbage around mine because I thought it clashed with the red.)

After we ignored the petition, our neighbors took additional action and we started getting letters from the city telling us our mailbox didn’t “meet code.” There’s a mailbox code up here? Really? And who has the kind of time to go out and inspect mailboxes, anyway?

After receiving multiple fines for violating city ordinances, we’ve since taken down our beautiful Indian mailbox, which was no easy feat due to our having sunk it in cement. From the get-go, we’ve invested two thousand dollars in materials and fines, countless man-hours’ worth of labor, and now we have to go to the post office to collect our mail, since the letter carrier won’t deliver to our house, as we have no box.
Argh.

Anyway, in terms of finances, there’s always credit and a second mortgage, but I don’t want to go that route.

“Does this indicate a possible bidding war between Persiflage and HBO?”
Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.

“That’s my hope, anyway. But I want you to get back to work and I’ll worry about Hollywood. Deal?”

“Deal.” My voice belies a confidence I do not feel.

“Mia, one more thing? I don’t want to impede your creative process, and I understand that in sci-fi/fantasy there’s the obvious need to suspend disbelief, but I’m really having a hard time buying that teenage zombies in love have so much to say about wallpaper. Get it together; get it done. Talk soon!”

Natalie sounds harsh, but she’s my agent, not my bestie. Her job is to make sure I’m delivering contracted work, not only on time, but of a certain caliber. She’s actually being a good friend by being tough on me, and I’m always the one who says fifteen percent of nothing is nothing.

I need her to kick me in the ass.

I need to get my head on straight and write this book.

I need to finish on time.

I need to get paid.

But first, I need to address this drawer-pull situation.

And find a new mailbox.