Nom de Plume

Which I reread last night, curled up in bed with my Petzel headlamp because Steve was asleep. It was instant childhood revisited. I always pictured Harriet’s bedroom and tiny bathroom as my bedroom and tiny bathroom in our house in Bucharest. It was at the top of a large three story house, and I was the only one up there in a rabbity warren maze of narrow halls and small rooms.

As a kid, it always outraged me that Harriet got blamed for other people reading her notebook. My feeling was always that yeah, they’re curious, but if they ignored the PRIVATE signs emblazoned on it, they deserved what they got. Pure and simple. On rereading it, I still felt that way–Ole Golly was the only adult who makes any sense on what she has to say about it–but more than that, I was struck by how absent Harriet’s parents are. Actually, all the parents are pretty absent, from Sport’s checked out father to Janie’s ineffectual mother. It’s kind of like Charlie Brown adults and their mwah mwah conversations; the parents are there, but they’re not present.

Which all leads to the question: Is Fitzhugh showing the separate world that children inhabit, or is she making a statement on all these parents? I can’t tell. Can you?

Normally, I don’t write about really personal things. I mean sure, I talk about Steve and Harry, and post pictures of the house and all that–but I tend not to write about work, or very personal issues.. So this post is an exception, and you are forewarned that it’s personal and also very long. I’m still a little freaked out, but it’s a more controlled freak out because I know exactly what is going on, and have a clear course of action.

A couple of months ago, I was shaving my, uh, nether regions, and noticed there were some white patches of skin. I thought it was really weird, but I was super busy work-wise, and I meant to look it up, but didn’t. Then, two weeks ago, I was running out to a client meeting. While I was brushing my teeth, I couldn’t remember if I had put on deodorant, so I raised my arms to check in the mirror. “Wow,” I thought. “I put on way too much!” Rubbed the white patches and they didn’t come off.

I got in a car and called Steve in total freak out mode. He interrupted me when I started telling him about the nether region patches. “Oh you’ve had those forever. You have some under your arms too.”

“Were you planning on telling me this?” I asked. “How long have they been there?”

“I just figured it was another one of your skin weirdnesses and didn’t want to get you all paranoid.” Much as it pains me to admit, he’s right on both accounts: 1) I have weird skin stuff; and 2) I am a complete hypochondriac. So when I got home, I made an appointment with the dermatologist. For the record, on the question of how long they’ve been there, he wavers between “since we’ve been together” and six months. Typical guy.

But then I noticed a patch on my face.

It wasn’t white–but it was definitely paler. Is it my imagination? Is it really there? Is it exactly like the other patches, or could it be something else? What about that red circle around it? And those bumps? So I started in on the Internet research.

I’m good at research. I love research. And I’m also on the computer all day long. At home. Alone. Where I have ample opportunity to imagine the worst. Before long, I was convinced I had both vitiligo and lichen scleroma, but was hoping that it was systemic tinea versicolor–not that the systemic part exists, but one can still hope, right? And my doctor’s appointment was still two weeks off. Then, I met Steve up in Victoria and we spent the day walking around in the sun. The next day, in a client meeting, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and while washing my hands started fixating on the light patch on my cheek.

And then I noticed that the areas above my eyebrows were sunburned.

“Of course, they’re redder,” scoffed Steve in an attempt to comfort me. “They stick out more.” The countdown to my doctor’s appointment began in earnest.

Still hoping that it was tinea versicolor, I started applying an antifungal lotion on my face. They just kept appearing. I hoped against hope that it was the versicolor thing, but I knew different. It was vitiligo.

I was bordering on hysterical. In the course of the next week, I went through all the stages of grieving–including acceptance once I realized that pretty much anything can be covered by makeup. And there’s specific makeup for this. The fact is, I spend less time on makeup than any other American woman alive, so who cares if I need 10 extra minutes every morning.

Meanwhile, I missed my hair appointment and my grays kept on growing in grayer. (I’ve been going gray since I was 25; my grandmother was completely gray when she was 35.) I was examining my head in the mirror, and noticed a patch of white. And then it seemed to me that my hair was thinning. Like seriously thinning. Alopecia (I had a bout of alopecia areata my early 20s) and vitiligo can go hand in hand. Never mind that Steve insists it’s been like that forever. Now there’s more Internet research. And there’s more hysteria.

So in other words, the last two and a half weeks have been absolutely terrible. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything. I had my appointment this morning. “I didn’t shave my armpits,” I explained, “so you could see that some of the hair is growing in white.” I didn’t even have my shirt off when her ears perked up at the mention of white and she said the dreaded word: “Vitiligo.”

I knew it.

But all is not lost. It’s all over my face–but it’s also early in the game (which means it’s just paler–you can only really see it up close). There are treatments. So we’re starting with Protopic, and she seems to think that repigmentation is more than likely. There are other, more aggressive treatments if the Protopic doesn’t work. And there’s always makeup. After the past couple of weeks, just knowing for sure makes a huge difference.

And there’s nothing wrong with my hair, except for the fact that I’m 33, not 23.

I am afraid I have done Mr. Demo a disservice, making it seem as though more of our house is in complete construction mode than is the case. I had lunch with Pete and Marc last week. Pete asked just how much of our house is livable. The answer is: quite a lot. Don’t believe me?** Maribel just finished scrubbing from top to bottom, so I feel no compunctions in posting pictures.

Welcome to Chez Smunshi with our unabashedly over-the-top art wall.

Admittedly, the chairs are a little bright. I’ve vaguely thought about having them recovered but that’s a) too expensive and b) way too much hassle. I did finally manage to get the rugs in the living room cleaned, which I picked up this morning.

Obviously, this is my office. My wallet is open because I just paid that stupid parking ticket from when I got towed three weeks ago. One of these days, I may actually get a real desk. And the floors refinished. And the ceiling repatched from the skylight leaking …

**Well, we think it’s livable. Those who prefer, um, uncluttered homes will no doubt hate ours. And given the state of the kitchen (and how long we lived with the bathroom), we all know how low our standards are.

Steve called this morning to see if his mother had made it off okay.

Actually, let’s rephrase that. He ostensibly called to see if his mother had left, but really just wanted to inform me that we are ripping out the kitchen cabinets tonight.

“All of them?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Will we have anything in there? I mean, will we even be able to make coffee?”

“Oh,” he said offhandedly. “We’ll make coffee in the bathroom.

This is my life, people.

Here’ s a little reminder of what the bathroom looked like when we moved in:

This is it now:

The tub, in which I have been spending most of my free time:

We bought the mirror at an antique store about a year ago. The corner cabinet was that unfinished furniture stuff. I’ve stained it, still have to varnish. Steve hates it in the bathroom; he says it looks hulking. Personally, I rather like it, but am thinking about just painting it white. The stain looks amateurish. Which isn’t a surprise because I did it.

And this is the marble thingie separating the hall and the bathroom. There’s another matching piece that’s going in the window as a sill/shelf.

We still need to get hooks/towel racks/other sundry storage, and finish the trim around the door. But for the most part, this is done.

And it feels a little anticlimactic. Sigh.

Otherwise known as what we in my family call girding one’s loins, in fond memory of someone who once got his tongue a little twisted with very amusing results. The bathroom? It’s DONE. I’ve painted. There’s still some minor trim work, but it looks fab. And now, I’m loining my girdle in preparation for Steve’s insistence that we’re adding a second story.

In preparation, he climbed the roof to take pictures of what the views would look like. They start at the southeast and move north, west, and south in order.

And here’s looking down into the backyard:

Charlotte’s excellent Green Meme.

1. What do you for the birds and the bees? According to the report, we need to plant a pollinator garden to counteract the effect pollution, pesticides and habitat destruction are having on birds, bees and insects. Bees, for instance, like yellow, blue and purple flowers. I attempt to do things, but I kill plants. Steve, on the other hand, has a lot of stuff in the garden that qualifies. I think.

2. Household products. Chemical or organic? Household chemicals contribute to indoor and outdoor pollution.
Whatever’s convenient, to be honest. However, my soapmaking has yielded a lot of green stuff to clean with. I use soap scraps and the soaps I don’t like to wash dishes, counters, the bathroom, and so on. Sadly, organic laundry and dishwasher detergents don’t work as well as their chemical counterparts. I keep trying, but end up going back to the polluting kind.

3. Do you junk?
I really hate all the junk mail we get. I’ve taken us off credit card offers, and as much junk mail as possible, but I really don’t think the “remove me from the list” services work all that well. We still get stuff.

4. Air-dry or tumble-dry? Line-drying saves money and stops carbon emissions.
Tumble, all the way. But I hate doing laundry and do my part by doing it as infrequently as possible.

5. Old gadgets. Recycle or toss ‘em? According to the report, we have to find a way not to fill up landfills with electronic objects. Charlotte says, “Here’s my current solution: fill up the cellar instead.” I concur wholeheartedly. I have good intentions.

6. Lightbulbs – incandescent or fluorescent? Fluorescent light bulbs use 70% less power and last ten times as long.I hate to admit this, but incandescent. I hate the light produced by fluorescent bulbs.

7. Meat or veg? Meat production is energy inefficient. It takes 16 pounds of grain to produce one pound of meat. After about seven years of being a vegetarian, I’m a wholehearted meat eater now. My concession is that I try to buy meat that comes from local sources.

8. Loo paper. Virgin or recycled? The paper industry is the third largest contributor to global warming. If every U.S. household replaced one toilet-paper roll with a roll made from recycled paper, 424,000 trees would be saved. Recycled. Though it’s still bleached and all that. I do wish all those recycled TP companies would skip the bleach.

9. Tap or bottled water? According to Newsweek, it takes a lot of oil to make and ship water bottles, and most end up in landfills. Tap. This whole bottled water craze is one of my pet peeves. First, the materials and transportation that go into it. Second, the fact that most tap water is cleaner. Just get a Nalgene bottle and you’re good to do. And if you must distill, get a Britta. The exception is fizzy mineral water. We usually have a case of that stuff around.

10. Dating – metrosexual or ecosexual? Newsweek says two recyclers are better than one. Dating? What’s that?

Yesterday, Dave ripped out the tub, prepped the subfloor, put in insulation, and added a couple of water shutoffs because we only had one. It’s amazing how fast it goes. Dave’s kind of fun to have around. He was talking to his girlfriend the other night, and saying, “Don’t let the dogs in the bed.” Pause. “No. No dogs in the bed while I’m gone. I know you.” Pause and big sigh. “Okay, just keep him off my pillows. I hate that.” Steve, meanwhile, was laughing out loud because we have this exact same conversation pretty much every day.

But this morning, I asked Steve where Harry was.

Sleeping with Dave, that’s where.

Shamefaced, Dave explained that Harry looked so lonely and pathetic alone on the couch last night that he scooped him up and plonked him on his bed. He was quick to add that Harry’s a bed hog and snores to boot.

Yet Harry stayed there. All night. On the bed.

Reminds me of Steve, saying he hates the dog.

Remember the bathroom saga? That has been restarted forty bazillion times? It’s actually going to be finished–within the next week.

Steve’s brother was laid off. He doesn’t seem overly concerned about it, so we’re not either. But Steve flew him out here and is paying him to finish the bathroom for us. The boys have left for Home Depot and it’s going to be a flurry of activity around here. Not only is Dave doing the bathroom, but he’s also replacing my leaking skylight.