Cocktailhag, the blog

This spring it will be 20 years that I’ve been knocking down walls, putting them back up, painting, tiling, wiring, installing kooky lighting systems, and planting everything I could get my hands on.   Nothing is nicer than seeing the evidence of this all over town, and even in Seattle, LA, Brooklyn, and Connecticut, and  feeling a special pride, long after the inevitable difficulties, surprises (all unpleasant, typically), and skirmishes have faded into memory, and when the owners are still in residence, to always be greeted at my projects as both friend and hero even years later.  (Usually, there’s a little something that needs to be done, too…)  Like few other businesses, remodeling creates an instant familiarity, perhaps too much of one, that will have to last through the stress of several expensive, inconvenient, and infuriating months, invariably a bit more of them than predicted, too.  For this reason, I always watch out at the first meeting for signs of duplicitousness, class superiority, overt religiosity, and /or Republicanism, because any or all of these traits means you’re likely to get ripped off, and possibly slandered afterward, and should beat a hasty retreat for the nearest exit.  In these instances, the smartest thing to do is just add a few zeroes to the bid, and send it in.  Works every time.

Once though, I violated this rule.  At the peak of the boom, a hotshot realtor started tossing a bunch of work, and some really nice clients my way, and even though they all complained about his poor service and high fees, none of us were going to make a stink about it, but just maybe get somebody better next time.  Then, he asked me to design the remodeling of his own house, and we agreed to meet.  The house was a big, beautiful Craftsman; huge, welcoming porch across the front, and a gorgeous, light-filled entry and stairwell resplendent with paneled woodwork, French doors, (regular and pocket…), and box beams.  The crown mouldings alone had about six pieces, and they were everywhere, the last ten inches or so of the 10′ ceilings.  I noticed that the woodwork was perfectly smooth, clearly either stripped or  having had but a few, very old coats of paint before this one, and the new coat was applied by now-vanishing Hag method…. brushed, but with oil paint rich in conditioner and sanded between coats, which, when done right, can make a finish like nail polish.  I immediately figured that they’d spent about ten grand to paint the woodwork alone, and commented on its beauty.  ”I think brushed looks so much nicer than sprayed,” said Mrs. Hell, and despite myself I thought maybe she and I could get along.  Hubby was late to the meeting, but seeing how far we’d progressed, he just took a cursory look, wrote a check, and I went home to make my measurements into drawings.  Thinking back, I do remember seeing an unread Wall Street Journal on the table, but at the time I didn’t see the the significance of this.  Also, they weren’t willing to take out permits, and since the job involved a whole lot of structural work and adding a bathroom, I thought this decision unwise, and unprofessional, as well.  Never mind.  I’m just doing the drawings, right?

Well, there certainly  turned out to be a lot of them..  Each evening, Mrs. Hell would consult neighbors, passers by, the cleaning lady, and the mail man, and decide that whatever I was supposed to draw yesterday would no longer do today.  When the subfloors were about to be ripped up for the third time, so the toilet, tub, and sinks could be yet again relocated, I finally snapped.  No wonder they didn’t want permits; the city charges you when you change your mind on such things, not to mention the contractors.  Exasperated, I said, “Why don’t we just put the toilet on wheels?”  ”Besides,” I continued, “Since we don’t have permits and the house is gutted, could we please at least keep the mailman out?”   She was, plainly, a sociopath, but did have an unusually good sense of humor for her ilk and took my ribbing in jest, unfortunately, as it turned out.  I noticed a copy of “Saving Terry,” the right-wing trash epic about Terri Schaivo, borrowed, no less, from the socialist Multnomah County Library lying on the coffee table around that time, while the Hells were, as usual, keeping me waiting for one reason or other, and at that moment I knew I was in deep trouble. Sure enough, the next day, as Mrs. Hell was dragging me against my will to the window company to pretend for her that this (fifth? eighth?) change to her window order was the last one, and all my fault, she offhandedly said that she wasn’t having a Christmas tree this year, as this remodeling was all just too stressful…  her primary school children would just have to man up and go without.  In all my life, I’d never heard such a thing, particularly from a woman who didn’t appear to do anything, as nearly as I could tell.  I said, “I plan to call child protective services and tell them what you just said, so your kids don’t end up telling this story to a shrink twenty years from now.”  I also demanded a check, since I’d drawn her remodel a dozen times and was being forced to make an ass of myself in front of the window guys.. She wrote it, and I vowed never to return her calls again.  Later, someone of her own class pointed out the obvious fact that not having a Christmas tree for her children was both cruel and unwise, and she apparently relented, even bothering to leave me a voice mail to that effect.  I didn’t care, nor did I respond.

A few days later, realizing I was utterly indifferent to her constant nagging, she left me another message, consisting entirely of her singing “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,” not too badly, all the way through.  I never called back, counting myself lucky to have been at least paid 2/3 of a fee for doing a job so many times so far, without too much of the real, costly trouble I could see coming a mile away.  Others weren’t so lucky.   For months afterward, I heard horror story after horror story about the tirades, accusations, threats, unpaid invoices, and bounced checks from everyone who had the misfortune to work on that house, and I thanked my lucky stars I got while the getting was good, and got out.

Know when to hold ‘em, but more importantly, know when to fold ‘em.

EPILOGUE:  In the face of the real estate collapse and the attendant declining fortunes of the Hell family, the Hell’s house was put on the market several months ago, at the modest figure of about twice what it’s worth, even had the remodeling been legal.  It has not sold.  Quelle surprise.