Totally Floored

By Mary Mendoza

We didn't plan our most recent home improvement project. It planned us.

As my son and I approached the house after school one day we heard a strange sound. I last heard that sound in 1967. At Niagara Falls.

Water was gushing from the wall behind the washer, shooting up, over, down and through the kitchen. As we waded into the room it was advancing towards the living room like a lava flow on Kilauea.

I raced to turn off the valves, then called my husband, our insurance agent, two plumbers and a Mexican restaurant to order take-out. I certainly wouldn't be expected to cook dinner in the face of this catastrophe.

On close inspection, we saw that a hose on the back of the washer had burst. The water flooded most of the appliances, soaked the under flooring and damaged the wall. Unfortunately, the hideous kitchen cabinets installed by the previous owner during the Nixon administration were unharmed.

Our insurance company sprang into action immediately. They dispatched Fan Man, a young guy who arrived with a flourish in a Crocodile Dundee hat, Australian bush jacket and snakeskin boots. He set up two Grand Coulee Dam-sized fans, insisting they'd dry out the wall in short order. They were huge, noisy and cold.

When the first team of contractors arrived the next day, they said, "The fans didn't work. They're huge, noisy and cold."

They brought in two gargantuan heaters, ripped the trim off the baseboards, cut out one of the cabinets, tore out the north wall, measured for a new floor, and left their Pepsi cans on what remained of the kitchen counter. They said they'd call before they came back. They promised to return "soon."

Soon came too soon. At 7:30 a.m. several days later, while I was still in my nightie, a guy named "Wally" appeared. He was here to install the new floor, he said, tossing his cigarette butt into the rhododendrons.

I invited Wally in to call his boss and explain that Mrs. Mendoza was unprepared for a floor. The boss said, "You understand if he doesn't install it today, you're looking at Friday, possibly Monday."

That scared me. I said, "Give me half an hour."

I hurled everything into the stove and what wouldn't fit in there I shoved in the fridge. When Wally and his pals returned they had a mover's dolly.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"We need to move the stove and refrigerator," the tall one said.

"Oh," I said and ran like hell.

I learned that contractor's advance calls mean nothing. "We'll be there by 9," could mean noon or next Wednesday.

During the next month, workmen appeared at their convenience. They brought with them dozens of annoying power tools which they left laying around, chunks of wood that never seemed to fit, and a mountain of candy wrappers and pop cans.

Contractors, if they stay long enough, become like cotton -- the fabric of our lives. I never got their names straight. There was a very short guy with a Nordic name and a Nordic-looking fellow with an Italian name, two guys named Bob and the foreman who had a girl's name.

I'd get cryptic phone messages from subcontractors. "Mrs. Mendoza I want to come by and pick up those color samples." I had no color samples.

Or, "Mrs. Mendoza call Randy at Floyd's Flooring right away." When I called for Randy they'd never heard of him.

Our contractors were brave, though. Facing me each morning without my make-up must have been scarier than crawling under rotting floor joists.

After two weeks of chaos, I called my sister.

"The kitchen sink is on the deck, the microwave is in bedroom, I haven't had a functioning stove or fridge for days and the last time I saw the toaster it was headed back to Wal-Mart," I wailed.

She was no help. "You have to realize contractors always take three times as long as they said and the job will cost twice as much as the original estimate. Want to go to lunch?"

Week three. We'd eaten at every fast food restaurant in town. We had no clean clothes, no clean dishes. We had no lives.

Nordic and one of the Bobs were standing around. "Can you please hook up the dishwasher?" I said brightly. They exchanged looks. "You gotta have a sink to have a dishwasher, Ma'am."

"I knew that!" I said, gripping the edge of the pulverized countertop. "When will I have a sink, do you think?" "Soon," they said in unison.

Five weeks and $4,820.40 later, we have countertops that look like Carrara marble, a new floor worthy of a Sunset magazine photo spread, a patched but paintable wall and a sink that works. But I've still got those darn Nixon cabinets!

Biographical Sketch - Mary Mendoza

Madcap Mary Mendoza, formerly known as Hurricane Mary, lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, son, three cats and 200,000 Sunset magazines.

Madcap's humor columns and feature stories have appeared in publications around the Northwest as well as online. She is the author of The Adventures of Madcap Mary, a collection of humorous stories. Madcap can be reached at mcmendoza@ispiral.com. Visit Madcap's site! http://www.madcapmary.com.