Why Are We Messing With This?

Dearest Rachel –

I suppose I really should’ve seen this day coming. Not so much the dream, however.

Let me start with it, as it’s the first thing that I wake up to. I warn you, however, but it’s not a subject matter that really interests you – not to mention, neither you nor I were in it. The story turns out to be one of a female quarterback – I’m not sure if it’s high school or college, but clearly the first in her conference – whose best friend and teammate is catfished into meeting a girl from the opposing school, only to be set up, exposed and humiliated for his attempts to court her. Somehow, in the chaos of exposing him, the opposition team leaves behind a playbook, which he discovers and brings back to his friend the quarterback. Not only is every play in there, but there is a note to the opposition team to make a deliberate effort to ‘take out’ this upstart female quarterback, lest she make a mockery of the game and the teams within the conference, which all have a proud football tradition. Of course, this being a story where the underdogs always win, the two of them work out counters to every play, including a fake ‘butt fumble’ play that leaves the wronged friend scooping up the football and running to the end zone for a touchdown and glory.

Of course, upon waking up, it occurs to me that a team shrud enough to pull a honey pot gag on an opposing team member would not be stupid enough to leave behind an actual playbook – although having a line in there imploring the team to target the female quarterback seems calculated to rile up and inflame their opposition all the more, were it a fake. Really, the best thing the girl could do would be to pretend to take the high road by informing her opponents that ‘oh, hey, you dropped this at the hotel where you embarrassed my friend… and oh, look, what’s this you’re telling your players to do to me on the field?’ Targeting an opponent for injury is, to put it mildly, frowned upon, after all. She could even caught keep a xeroxed copy of the of the book – just in case it’s genuine – in order to truly embarrass them on the field, thereby having her cake and eating it, too. I mean, if there’s proof of a price on your head, anything goes to counter it, right?

But that’s just the dream world. Once I wake up, I have real world issues to deal with that I’m not really looking forward to.

And yet, like I said, I knew they were coming. It’s why I prepared the yellow room, after all. I knew the master bedroom was going to be, if not rendered uninhabitable, at least cut off from the rest of the house at some point. There is a hallway between the sunroom and the laundry room, and the master bedroom and bathroom are on opposite sides of that hallway. The hallway has the same flooring as the laundry room, which is being ripped out. So, naturally, so is the flooring in the hall, all the way down to the wood.

None of this comes as a surprise, you understand. I’ve been expecting to need to relocate for some time, now. Granted, I didn’t consider that I’d need to move all my clothing up to the yellow room, so I still have to walk through the laundry room in order to get dressed every morning; it’s a little out-of-the-way (especially with the connection between the bedroom and the laundry room having already been sealed off), and I need to be wearing something on my feet, but I can manage.

What I hadn’t expected was an email between the lead carpenter and the designer (the latter of whom had just come over because the former hasn’t been on the job site for the past week, due to his own bout with Covid). Most of it covered technical details, some of which were beyond my ability (or need) to understand, others of which had to do with the electrical work Tom and I had discussed yesterday. But one item seized my attention; Mike claimed that the tiles in the master bathroom were coming loose – and in any event, weren’t level with the hallway – and would need to be replaced.

I confess to not being able to see the problem. We’d lived with the issue of the front hall tiles for years, a number of which were loose (the grout had all but turned to powder), and a handful that were outright broken, you’ll remember. The tiles in the bathroom show nothing of the sort, to be honest. I talked to one of the crew this morning when they arrived, and the lead guy showed the slight give in one at the entrance, but it doesn’t strike me as significant enough to really mess with. While he assured me that removing the current tiles and reflooring the room with the same tiles being used for the laundry room (another piece of news; I’d thought we were using the same flooring as in the kitchen. Must have been a quick – and quickly forgotten – discussion, for me to have forgotten) wouldn’t touch the heating system underneath, I’m going say the issue runs deeper than that (if you’ll pardon the expression).

Much as I’ve convinced myself that I can relocate my sleeping quarters, I hadn’t given sufficient thought to the fact that Daniel and I have long since staked out ‘our’ bathrooms in this house. We’ve got all of our stuff in ‘our’ territory, and we’re comfortable with it being like that. I don’t venture into his (barring sudden emergencies), and he doesn’t venture into mine (save for filling up his water bottle – he seems convinced the water it better down there, or maybe the sink upstairs is leaky – I’m not quite sure). I know you shared the bathtub with him (not at the same time, of course, but you know what I mean), but I’m too habituated to my morning shower – which you would share with me on weekends, but only then.

Which brings up another incidental issue, come to think of it. Every time I’ve been on the phone with Yvonne (and I really need to fill you in on her at some point. I’m not going to go so far as to say she’s the one, but she does seem to be genuine, and I think we’re both looking forward to the possibility of meeting and getting to know each other face-to-face in the near future), she tends to sign off by letting me know that she’s going to take a bath before bedtime. I don’t know how that might work out between the two of them – or, if not her, any possible ‘Megumi’ – in the future. It’s not like we have a third bath for a potential third person in this house (although even if we did, it wouldn’t be all that convenient for her).

Much is said about feeling at home in one’s own bedroom. But not enough is said about the necessity of feeling comfortable in one’s own bathroom. I can’t remember which one of your friends is like this, but some people simply can’t use anywhere but their own bathroom; being out in public for an extended period of time becomes a painful situation that requires a good deal of planning for.

I never thought of myself as being like this, but it seems that I’m unwilling to give mine up for the several days it would take to tear the room up and re-tile it. It may just be that I don’t see a problem bad enough to require the work, but on the other hand, even one morning without that warmth under my feet has proven… less than optimal. I’m spoiled, I admit it. So, I’m going to talk to Mike about this tomorrow, and see if we can work a way around this.

Until then, honey, wish me luck. It looks like I’m going to need it.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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