Nom de Plume

Last week, when we were staying across the alley because of redoing the floors, a digital scale stared at me balefully until I stripped down and stepped on it. I even parked my gum.

And I still passed out cold.

Because, you see, somewhere along the way, I have become a Fat Person. I’m not really sure how that happened, though I guess I’ve suspected. Really, I’ve been in denial. So I ran out, bought a scale of my own and stocked up on Fat Flush goods.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Fat Flush, it’s yet another diet plan. I picked up the book last summer (in a brief attempt to undeny my denial). The first two weeks consist of a detox in which you eat lean proteins, veggies, fruit, “cranwater” made of unsweetened cranberry juice and water, and flax seed oil. The longest I’ve managed to stay on it was four days before sugar and caffeine withdrawals hit. Hard. I will say, however, the results of even four days are pretty immediate.

This time, I said, I’m serious. And here I am, a full week done. This evening, a neighbor who I haven’t seen in a while said I looked skinny. Naturally, this made my day, so I rushed home and asked Steve what he thought.

He got that funny look on his face. You know, the one guys get when they realize they’re screwed no matter what they say.

“Uh, did you tell her you were fat flushing before she said that?”

“NO,” I said emphatically. A pause. I tried to stop myself, I really did. “So you can’t tell a difference?”

“Uh-huh?” he said hesitantly. “Is that the right answer?”

“No, seriously.”

“Yes, I can.” He was firm.

“No, you can’t.”

“Zia,” he said exasperated, “I don’t notice if you’re fat or thin. You always look good to me.”

“So I’m fat.”

“You are a gorgeous woman, the light of my life, at the pinnacle of her beauty.”

Yeah, yeah, that sounds great. The only thing was that he was deadpanning, his voice completely flat. That, and he was pretending to read a notecard cheatsheet off his palm. I raised my eyebrows.

“A radiant specimen of joy and light?” he offered hopefully. I shook my head.

“I know! You’re a blossoming flower!”

“Blossoming flowers are fat,” I harrumphed.

Then he started laughing.

Last week, I took Harry in for a checkup, and he seems to be doing fine. The vet gave me a prescription for two full months of prednisone, instead of the one month supply as we’ve been doing.

This seems to me to be a good sign.

Funny, though: I keep hanging on to the original empty bottle. It’s as though keeping it will keep keep further degeneration at bay, while throwing it out is tempting fate.

We opted not to go for it. It’s in good shape, etc., but let’s face it: it would sit in the yard for three months, make our neighbors hate us, and generally bring down property values.

Steve was totally depressed coming back to our house after staying at Geoff and Michael’s place while the floor was redone. Part of that is due to the fact that their bedroom is the same size as our living room and the other reason is that their bathroom is utterly gorgeous. Needless to say, they don’t have a blue tub and toilet.

So I hopped onto Craig’s List and found a clawfoot tub in good condition for a pretty good price. The problem? It’s 62 inches, and there’s a jog in the wall by the tub that renders it too short. Steve was resistant. But he still carved a hole in the drywall to see what was behind it. There’s nothing. Which I guess galvanized him to action. He just called to tell me he’s found a guy on his site who will tile for us. And we’re going out to see the tub tonight.

And of course, he will eventually say the whole thing was his idea …

When I posed the question to Steve, he laughed. Okay, scratch that. He really snickered. But doesn’t the dining room look nice and clean?

The filch being yours truly and not that I stole Christmas, I stole this Vietnamese lacquer liquor cabinet over Christmas from my mother because she didn’t want it. It’s been in my car ever since we got back. And now it’s sitting on freshly refinished hardwood floors. It may not stay where it is, but hey — now I have a back seat again.

In true 50s fashion, the era of the mixed drink and when my grandfather bought it in Vietnam, the entire front swivels around to display a bar.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun with this,” quoth Steve.

Turns out they’ve already put down three coats. So the floors are finished!

They’ll be putting the third — and final — coat down today. We should be able to move back in tomorrow night. Because it’s so wet, probably won’t move furniture back in until the weekend.

Steve is filled with woe because we’ve gone 26 days of straight rain — only a few days short of the record, which was 33 days sometime in the 50s. He’s moaning about SAD, depression, and lack of light. I pointed out that he was in sunny Southern California for nine of those days. To which he said it didn’t count and informed me that the only way to soothe his sunlight-starved soul is to give him nightly foot massages and backrubs.

If we’re doing the trite Shakespearean references, the appropriate quote might be “Out damned spot” instead; the oak in the living room is somewhat water-damaged. At first, we were going to stain it, but it was so DARK. So we’ve opted to stay with the Swedish finish, spots be damned. It will look like old flooring, rather than new. And that’s okay by us.

They’ve put on the first of three coats, and it looks amazing. We should have done this months ago. I’m gung ho about renovation now. Last night, over dinner, I said to Steve, “Let’s talk about what we’re going to do to the kitchen now.” He, not-so-kindly, pointed out that I haven’t even gotten around to painting the bathroom.