Wait! I'll Even Shave My Legs & Put on Pantyhose!

There's a scene in my current favorite movie, Glory Road (and, yeah, I know it's way old and everyone else on the planet has seen it and can't imagine why it's my favorite, but two words: coach's wife) where one of the guys on the team has to sleep outside in the hall because his roommate is "entertaining a lady." In the morning his teammates wake him up and walk off down the hall, and he stands up and tosses the blanket down and has a little temper tantrum.

That's exactly how I feel. Sometimes I just want to stomp around in a circle and shake my fists and squeal like an angry little kid. Except I want to yell, "I WANT MY WINDOWS, DAMNIT!"

I'm not the most patient person in the world. Maybe I've mentioned that? I tell people I am Type AAA. When I get an idea, I want it implemented right then. I don't want to think about it, mull it over, give it some time to ripen, let it lie for a while. Hell, no. I want to get an idea, figure out how to make it work, and get busy. The sooner, the better. Yesterday would be best. But this is not happening for me, and it's gotten to the point where the temper tantrum isn't far off.

I want new windows. And, even more, I NEED new windows. I HAVE TO HAVE new windows. See, this is an old house. Well, "old" for this part of the country: it was built in the 1940's. At some point, someone put in new aluminum windows, but that's been a while. The glazing--or the vinyl stuff that was used in place of glazing--is shot, especially on the west-facing window in the sewing studio.  The afternoon sun has made it brittle, and it's all cracked and fallen away. The glass in that window is loose; I could just push it out if I wanted to.

A couple years ago we had that huge hail storm, with damage all over town. Insurance paid for new windows across the front of the house, new siding all around, and a new roof. The windows we had put in are double-paned vinyl, and I love them. I was waiting to see whether or not this love would last before I set about replacing the rest of the windows. It has, and so now I'm ready.

But. And this is a very big but: I don't want just to replace the window in the sewing studio. I want it bigger. A lot bigger. As in: as big as it can be in the space between the refrigerator and the electric meter on the outside wall. This means it's a way more involved project than just having someone come out and replace a window. This means someone's going to have to come out and cut a big hole in the wall, frame a new window, and install that.

So I've been saving. I saved enough so that, unless someone was just crazy-greedy and wanted to gouge me through my gizzard, I could get that window replaced. And a couple weeks ago, I set about getting some estimates. Now, I had been dreading this part, understandably. Those of you who have been hanging out at The Voodoo Cafe for a while may remember my adventures with The Bad Boyfriend, the contractor who did so much work here--the Flood-Abatement Patio, the front porch, the storage building, remodeling the bathrooms. Or, wait: remodeling ONE of the bathrooms. Because it was during the remodel of the second bathroom that he became The Bad Boyfriend: after gutting the bathroom, down to the studs, he vanished. So I spent three months with a bathroom that had only a toilet and a tub, with no sheetrock, no sink, and only a string of Christmas tree light thumbtacked to the doorjamb for lighting. He didn't show up when he said he would, he didn't return my calls, he didn't come by.

Yeah, The Bad Boyfriend.

So I've been dreading the part where I start dating again. I hate that initial meeting, the one where they come to do the estimate, but even more than that, I hate the part where you wait for them to call back. You wait, and you wait, and you wonder why they don't call. Was it because you weren't pretty enough? Did your breath smell of garlic? Did they hope you'd have more money? Or, in this case, a nicer house?

Because, people, here's the fact: while the rest of the country is mired in recession, with millions of people out of work, Midland is in another one of its boom periods. Housing starts are up, and the most recent economic report, in yesterday's paper, shows the biggest one-month growth ever reported. So Midland is doin' fine, thank you very much. And you might have noticed up there where I mentioned "housing starts," right? As in, people building houses. People here meaning "contractors." Builders. People who do stuff like, oh, you know: put in windows.

And while I knew that things were booming here in my little city, I hadn't heard that latest report when I set about calling people for estimates. Poor me. I called two at first. One was a guy who was recommended by a man in the neighborhood whose wife had hip-replacement surgery. So they had their bathroom and hall enlarged to accommodate her while she was recuperating. He recommended the guy who did the work. I also set up an appointment with a guy we met at a museum opening, one of The EGE's former students, a kid with excellent social skills who works with his dad. So I set up first dates appointments, and I put on pretty clothes and made iced tea, and I waited.

OK, I lied. I left on my old Levi's, and I've never made iced tea in my life and wouldn't know where to start except with the part that involves ice, because we have some of that. Oh, wait: I think there are tea bags in the storage building, in the plastic bin full of dyeing supplies. For, you know, tea-dyeing.

Whatever.

So I double-booked, and they showed up (separately, of course, since I'm not a total dating novice), and I explained what I wanted done. I explained what I wanted done first (the sewing studio window) and what I wanted done next (the same thing done to the window in The Voodoo Lounge), and then the windows in our bedroom, and the window out here in the office studio. And then the kitchen door. The front door. And I asked that these be priced out separately.

OK, now maybe this was kind of like meeting up on the first date at Starbucks and telling the guy what you're going to name the kids and where you want to go on your silver anniversary trip and how much you expect to have in your 401K by retirement. I see that now. A little overwhelming, maybe. I realized that when neither of guys called when they said they would--possibly just the tiniest bit intimidated by my plans for our kids' high school graduation parties and subsequent Grand Tour--and I had to start nagging calling with gentle reminders to deliver the estimates.

The guy who'd done work in the neighborhood finally sent an email saying, gee, he was sorry, but his wife, who's finishing up her internship as a physician's assistant, just got transferred, and so he's not taking on any more work. But here're just some ballpark figures on what it might have cost if he *had* agreed to do it. He tossed out some numbers, and I had to add them up (this much for removing the old window, this much for buying the new ones, this much for framing, this much for installing), and it looked like it came out at around $2000, more or less. Pretty good, but what's the point? He can low-ball it because, duh: he's not offering to do it for that price. He's just saying what he might have done it for had he agreed to do it. Like, "Oh, yeah, baby, if I were going to marry you, we'd go to Greece every autumn and Paris every spring, and I'd buy you a Lexus every two years and send our children to boarding school in the Alps. But, um, it turns out I'm joining the Peace Corps. Plus I'm gay. And already married."

The other guy, The EGE's former student, didn't call. Not the first time I called him. Nor the second. Then he called and left a charming message, saying, OMG, I am SO sorry, I just spaced on this, I've been out of town, I never do this, I'm never late, I love you, baby, let's run away to Spain. You pack; I'll pick you up in an hour.

Fast forward. When he finally emailed me the estimate, it was so confusing I couldn't figure out exactly what he was estimating: replacing the window in the sewing studio or building me a brand-new house. So I called him up, and he sort of explained it, and I got the vague idea that he was saying it would cost $4300 to replace and enlarge that one window. Which was kind of more than the first date contractor had suggested it might have been, had he been willing to leave his wife and family and make an honest woman of me.

I thought perhaps I should get a third estimate, try to figure out which of these figures was closer to reality. So I texted a friend who had had some work done when he and his wife moved into their dream house, and he sent me a link to Handyman Don. Whom I called. And who also showed up. This time, however, I was coy. I didn't mention our grandchildren or our retirement account or even where I wanted to go on our honeymoon. Nope. I mentioned just the first date: the window in the sewing studio. That's it. No mention of anything else, no future plans, nothing.

Handyman Don, a nice enough guy in an Independent Contractor with No Dental Plan kind of way, liked cats and was left-handed and took a lot of measurements and made notes, and he assured me he would bring me the estimate Monday afternoon at 5:30. He said this several times. Many times, as if proving to us that he really meant it, seeing as how he was saying it again. And again.

So Monday I cooked dinner, set out the best china and silver, had my hair done, bought roses. Put on Sinatra.

The jerk didn't show. Nor did he call. Nor on Tuesday. When I finally called, his wife/girlfriend/mistress from The Dark Side was apologetic and said they were waiting to get the price of the new windows, and she assured me Handyman Don would call me the next morning before noon.

That was last Wednesday. I called yesterday, finally, and left a message and said, "Gee, if you don't love me, just let me know so I can find someone else and move to Omaha."

No response. And I don't expect one, not at this point. Not after reading the article in yesterday's paper about the building boom, and not after The EGE talked to another former student who bemoaned the fact that contractors from Dallas are coming in to work.  This guy said that the Dallas contractors are underbidding the local guys, and I said, "Serves them right, the greedy bastards." Maybe I need to hook up with one of the guys from Dallas.

I hear internet dating is the way to go.

{Thanks so much for listening. XO}