Catastrophe in the Bedroom

No, not that kind! Shame on you! My cottage is heated and cooled by two ductless units, the kind that hug the ceiling. In this small space, they are godsends. I have one in the living area and another in the bedroom, which is the only carpeted room. Perhaps you can see the catastrophe coming.

A week ago or more I noticed two spots on the carpet, so yesterday I asked the lovely lady who cleans my house to treat them. She can do what I can’t—get down on her hands and knees. She moved some light pieces of furniture and announced that the problem was much bigger than I thought—about half the carpet was soaked and badly stained. Frantic calls to my contractor and my insurance company.

Today, said contractor, Lewis Bundock, came and we stood and shook our heads. The problem is that the very small bedroom in my very small cottage contains one antique mahogany bed (read heavy) and one mahogany buffet with a marble top—I use it as a dresser. Both are family pieces that I treasure. But if we have to empty the bedroom to replace the floor, what do we do with these massive pieces of furniture. There’s no room in the cottage, nor in the main house. And where do I sleep? The less than satisfactory answer to that is probably on the couch in my living area—yes, it pulls out to a double bed, but then what do you do with the coffee table? I see some uncomfortable nights ahead.

I spent much of today calling around to find solutions, talking to the insurance appraiser, etc. What nobody seems to understand is that the furniture doesn’t need restoration—it simply needs storage. Several companies that I called said they just don’t do that kind of thing. I’m beginning to think that the best solution if to rent a storage locker for a month and hire movers to take the furniture—costly but necessary.

Meanwhile Lewis will meet with the floor guy in the morning. I have decided for several reasons not to replace carpet with more carpet—I will put down hardwoods. Easier for my rolling walker, that I sometimes sit on, and less of a trap for dirt and fleas. But insurance won’t cover that upgrade, so with a high deductible this is going to hit my pocketbook.

On a brighter note, Jacob went to supper tonight with Betty, Jean, and me—because he wanted mahi mahi, and I promised we would go to Pacific Table. I thought he should order fish in a seafood restaurant, not a steak house. The special of the night was blackened mahi-mahi, and he pronounced it “pretty good,” high praise from a twelve-year-old. We ate on the patio where it was blessedly quiet and empty except for a couple of tables. As we left, the man at an adjoining table, waiting for his wife, said something to the effect that Jacob was one polite young man, in spite of the Baylor shirt. Words that pleased me and will delight his father and other grandmother. He’s a good kid, even if he admits he’s a bit leery for his contemporaries to see my car. “It’s not a very masculine car,” he explained to me tonight. I told him women have come up to me in the grocery story to say, “My husband would kill for your car” He was skeptical.

Life goes on, not without minor traumas.