P.S. I love you

The impossible happened. I took a week off work in order to tackle a home improvement project. For someone with a serious jones for travel, the idea of using valuable time off for physical labor is incomprehensible. Yet I had been talking about redoing my bedroom for years and it was time to walk the walk.

After watching many episodes of Trading Spaces and various HGTV fodder, I had limitless ideas and a limited budget - $1000 to be exact. Just like on TV. It became apparent that the only way this room re-do would actually happen, was if I took a week off work, slaved away until finished and then hit the road with whatever remaining days I had left. The prospect of burning vacation days would spur me on to completion.

Things started well. Friday night (Halloween) I removed all the furniture, every last box of memorabilia and irrelevant knick knacks and emptied the closet. On Saturday I sprayed the popcorn ceiling, began spackling and sanding the walls and staining the baseboards. Sunday the doors and window frame were stained dark walnut and the room got painted a beautiful golden hue. But, I ran out of paint while completing the closet and realized the masking tape had adhered to the baseboards. So much for smooth sailing.

On Monday, I gratefully returned to the office for a day. While there, it became obvious that I needed out of the paint fume zone. Particularly, since the furniture I’d ordered had not arrived and I was dead in the water – since it required assembly. The call of the desert sounded between insurance quotes and before you could say Coachella Valley I had found a cheapo room at the Vagabond on South Palm Canyon in Palm Springs – where I had stayed thirty years ago during my married years.

I was unproductive Monday evening, except for doing laundry in a blizzard, but hit the paint can Tuesday morning, finishing the closet, touching up the room and starting the long slow process of sorting through piles of outdated paperwork.

On Wednesday, I arose early, put all my clothes and shoes back in the closet while simultaneously packing. I was out the door at 9:30 and on the road south towards sunshine. I foolishly took the back way through Lucerne Valley (a virgin highway to me) which resulted in arrival at Palm Springs near dusk. No time to hike Joshua Tree, darn.

After freshening up, I headed off to a little Belgian bistro on the main drag: Pommes Frites. There I had the most luscious mussels and frites ever. (Better than Bouchon and I told them so) That along with a Belgian Beer (leffe blonde) set me back only $32.00 including tax and tip, so the trip was off to a great start. Especially when the chefs wished me a charming "bon soir" as I departed. Then, I wandered into the stylish Spa Casino, dropped some minor coin and called it an evening.

The next morning, I strapped on my fanny pack and headed to Indian Canyons, a beloved hiking spot. It was a hot day, but the fan palm forest along the creek was cool and shady. It reminded me, for some weird reason, of the hike up Russian Gulch (near Mendocino) except that everything looked different. I sweated my way up a steep climb while listening to the Gypsy Kings version of “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. This is how I do the desert.

A gorgeous dusty brown vista awaited me as I came to the crest. I stepped off trail to grab some photos of cacti when I felt a sharp sting in my ankle. Yikes! I’d been attacked by a jumping cholla. I’d been warned by an ex-boyfriend of this fierce desert predator. It has apricot sized spike balls that detach from the plant and seemingly jump onto passersby. I definitely had not brushed against any kind of cactus, and yet these ouchy spines were embedded in my flesh, while trickles of blood headed toward my socks. How to remove? You can’t just yank 'em out, because they’ll attach to your hands. I picked up a flat stone and tried scraping it off, to no avail. Stumped but secluded, I removed my t-shirt, wadded it up enough to grasp the spikes without piercing my digits, and pulled off the offender. The remaining spears I removed singly, then rinsed off the area with my squirt water bottle, donned my top and decided to head back down to the car. Enough adventure for one day.

There’s nothing a root beer float from A&W won’t cure! That and a soak in the hot tub before heading out for the Thursday night street fair along the blocked off Palm Canyon Drive. There was good people watching there, although Palm Springs is not the best place to meet men if you’re a heterosexual. I had a scrumptious $2.40 tamale from Maria’s street stand, bought some fresh crop dates and watched the ubiquitous spray paint artist create a sci-fi moonrise. Next, I grabbed a pizza slice at Lotsa Mozza and crossed the street to Hotel Zoso to catch the jazz trio, who were breaking down just as arrived. Oh well, it was a good night to return to the motel and start “Eat, Pray, Love.”

Friday was another sunny, hot day and I pointed the car south once again. I was anxious to view the Salton Sea for the first time, and it was indeed impressive. It made me think of what the Dead Sea must look like; a vast expanse of sparking blue water with parched mountains all around. There was a great collection of shore birds along the salty beach, along with many desiccated dead fish that appeared to have been there since biblical times. What was lacking was people. The Visitors’ Center was deserted, there were about 3 campsites taken and I was the only one along the shore for miles. The midday sun was intense, so after a short hike on the nature trail, I headed back to civilization.

And what sums up contemporary American culture better than gorging at a casino buffet? I was checking out Fantasy Springs near Indio and again saw that there’s little difference these days between Las Vegas and California-style Indian Casinos. The lunch was fine and ample, the slots slightly accommodating and the pool area gorgeous and inviting. After the tour, I got back in the car and drove toward Palm Springs along Highway 111, noting the changes in the 4 years since my last visit.

Still unsuccessful at happening upon a dark and cozy jazz club that was intended to cap my day, instead I bought a ticket at Regal 9 theatres to see “Rachel Getting Married.” I settled in to the large leather recliner with popcorn and a Diet Coke treat (a rare splurge for miserly me). This was my first experience at a screening room style cinema, and I liked it a lot. I couldn’t believe this luxe environment cost only 50 cents more than the price of admission to our dated movie house in Mammoth. And the little jazz club I was seeking was right around the corner in The Courtyard. Ah well, next trip – the movie didn’t let out until 11:30.

I was motivated to cram it all in on the last morning, so I strolled the adjacent Moorten Botanical Gardens. Here I learned that the original owner, a well known photographer, left Palm Springs when it got too developed (in the 1940’s!) and relocated to the Owens Valley. Next, I jumped on my bike for an hour and cruised quiet golf course-lined neighborhoods. After that, a refreshing swim before packing up the car and heading out. I stopped by an estate sale that I had spotted while cycling and bought some home decor, for the project waiting for me back home. I squeezed in one more casino stop, the Morongo in Cabazon – this was the largest, featuring an incredible pool with a lazy river and small water slide. There were too many smokers there and too few penny slots, so I continued on toward Redlands. I found a welcoming sports bar right downtown to watch UCLA get spanked by Oregon State. The Greek salad was tasty as was the local brew, Hangar 49. They make an orange wheat concoction that’s pretty amazing. I sat next to a talkative self-avowed millionaire, class of ‘76, friend of Mark Harmon.

At six, I left the game, my new friend and Redlands to hit the long road home. My sandals weren’t the best footwear choice for the blizzard I encountered upon return to the homestead. I guess it’s time to deal with winter now.

And the unfinished bedroom project? So much to be done . . . How can they do it in a weekend on TV? Oh right, they have a carpenter. a designer, a host who pitches in and two able-bodied homeowners. Not to mention power tools. It’s a little harder tackling a room solo, but I managed to paint the bookshelf, assemble a night stand and toss out twenty years worth of old tax returns on my final vacation day. I’m sure I can finish next weekend. . . .

It’s now one month later:

I just spent the morning bolting together a manager’s chair, sorting photos, tossing out more tax returns and enjoying my desk, which as planned, has a view of Mammoth Rock. At the moment, as I type in my comfortable leather throne, I feel rather Carrie Bradshaw-esque.

But it’s been a month and I still have boxes in my living room, no artwork is up, shelves need to be installed and my enthusiasm is waning. Yet, I’ve come so far and when I spin around and look at everything I’ve done, and how much I like the results, it motivates me to keep moving forward.

In fact, today I found the courage to open the Craftsman inspired iron candle sconces that I bought at the very beginning of the endeavor to go on the wall. I laid them out on the floor with art work I had culled from my collection and BINGO! – the perfect arrangement. The pieces work together and make sense and will add just the focal point and tone I was looking for in the room. It’s cool that this space has become an art project in itself.

Best of all, for the first time in my life, I have a wonderful place to write and study. It features a large new maple desk, a rich leather chair, a view of the Sherwin range, and as dusk falls and the moon rises, the sound of coyotes howling in the meadow. A room of one's own, as Virginia Woolf advocated. Now, if I can just find the time to hang the bookshelves.