So, I was able to spend the last week working for Portland, which let me check in on the progress on my house. I spent the better part of two days planning the next two phases of renovations. More on that in another entry.

I just had to share that while I haven’t been able to enjoy set up housekeeping in my little place yet, I can take some small comfort in the fact that, apparently, some of my local “neighbors” have.

A seagull took advantage of the fact that my office-to-be (formerly the boat well) still doesn’t have windows to build a nest on the framing between the back room and bathroom, where cabinets had been ripped out.

I found that pretty amusing but one of my handymen, Gene, has an even better story…

Gene is a soft-spoken older Portlander who usually turns up garbed in what I’m starting to think of as the obligatory work ensemble of paint-stained jeans, ratty t-shirt, black belt, and baseball cap with fishing logo. Gene is a wizard with anything wood and frequently does framing for my current contractor, Kenny.

Anyway, last week Gene was busy working on the framing for the new rooftop deck. He goes to pry back a piece of siding and out fly 30-or-so, small, but very indignant, bats–straight at him. I don’t know who was more upset by the experience, Gene or the bats. Either way, poor Gene ended tottering backwards into the water.

That’s right. I apparently have a colony of bats living between the siding and walls of my house. I’d really like to know how my myopic home inspector overlooked THAT little item.

I’ve always thought bats were interesting creatures. When I lived in Tucson, I never begrudged their drunken little evening parties where they’d clean out my hummingbird feeders or careen across the surface of the swimming pool at sunset gorging on bugs. I have to admit, though, that I’m a little less enamored with the thought of sharing the walls of my house with them.

I had already planned on replacing the siding, which is in lousy shape. Discovering the presence of my furry little flying squatters, however, has just moved that project to the top of the priority list.

The guys are under instructions not to hurt the bats but to ask them, very politely but firmly, to find new diggs. The bats are welcome back next summer for evening drinks on the porch, of course. They’re just not allowed to stay the night.

So I guess you could say that while some people have bats in their belfry, I, apparently, keep mine in my boathouse.

So, while I was in Portland I also needed to meet with Brian, the property manager for the marina, to arrange for my parking passes and remotes to get past the front gates. When I got to the marina, Brian was out and about tackling other problems, as good property managers are often wont, which meant I got to wander up and down the docks introducing myself to people and asking if anyone had seen him. (All I knew was that he was a casually-dressed, middle-aged, white guy with a baseball cap. I’m quickly learning that describes about 85% of the people you find along the water.)

Through this process, I got to meet a couple of the local handymen and also a few of my neighbors. Everyone was friendly and politely curious. However, I started to get a little uneasy when the third person in a row asked when my “lifemate”/”partner” was coming up to join me.

I didn’t think much of it at first when the handymen had asked. I mean, a new, non-retiree female shows up at the marina. They’re probably trying to figure out what mental bucket to put me into. But when the nice, blue-haired retiree a few doors down from my place used the term “lifemate” and looked confused when I replied that my boyfriend lived in another state, the alarm bells started going off. Things got weirder still when I tracked down Brian and, during small-talk in his office, it came out that he thought I worked as a stewardess. And then he also asked about my “partner”.

As best as I can figure things without outright asking someone, word around the marina seems to be that the new owner of my place is a lesbian stewardess.

I smell my realtor, Graham, behind this small bit of mischief. I should be quick to say that Graham was nothing but professional and courteous in his dealings with me. And that I think he did a great job for a very small commission. But Graham is also a bit of a character and I saw glimpses along the way of a wicked sense of humor.

In buying the house I only over dealt with two people–my realtor, Graham, and the owner of the marina, Jack. So, unless Brian and the handymen are particularly gutsy with their pranks with people they’ve just met, the misinformation started with either Graham or Jack. If I had to guess, what might have happened is one of the handymen at the marina started pestering Graham for details on the new owner. I could see Graham coming up with a story like that under the right circumstances. I mean, doesn’t it sound like the set-up for your typical 30-minute Cinemax porn?

Charlie seems highly amused by my predicament. Well, he did, until I threatened to introduce him to people as my “lifemate” who’d just finished going through her sex-change operation. Then he was quick to point out that people would never believe it with how pronounced an Adam’s apple he has. (Never mind that he’s also 6 feet 7 inches tall and has an amazingly deep voice.)

I’m still waffling on how to handle this latest development. I mean, do I post a cardboard sign in my window saying: “I hate to wreck anyone’s fantasies but: 1) I’m dating a guy and 2) I typically work at boring jobs involving lots of time staring at numbers”?

Or do I decide to compound the mischief? I have a former roommate and good friend, Katherine, who’s gay. She’s willing to come up for a visit sporting a stewardess uniform and has even offered to swoop in and bend me backwards in a passionate smooch. (This last bit would be quite a feat considering I’m 5 feet 11 inches and she’s quite a bit shorter than me.)

Anyway, things to contemplate while I’m packing…

A friend of mine who’s a contractor believes no one should be allowed to start a remodeling project before first being forced to sit down and watch the movie The Money Pit. At least six times. Back-to-back. Without restroom breaks.

I’ve seen the movie more than once because it’s one of my mother and brother’s favorites (more on that later). But, just the same, I discovered this past week that there’s a world of difference between understanding intellectually that your new place is going to need a lot of work and standing in the middle of the carnage after a contractor has had his way with your baby for a couple of weeks.

I think this is doubly true when you can see the Columbia River beneath your feet in 90% of the places that were covered with really nice carpeting the last time you were there.

But let me back up a bit and explain how I reached this moment of dismay…

I hired Randy Olson, a local contractor, to do the work on the float. Randy is the owner of Duck’s Moorage, a marina a few down from mine and he’s got a good reputation on the river for his work. Randy is an easy-going guy with graying temples and a twinkle in his eyes. He looks like he could be Tom Skerritt moonlighting.

Randy is a man of few words and not one to catastrophize. As a matter of fact, the first time I reached him on his cell phone and asked if it was a good time to talk, he told me he “had a few minutes”. I discovered only later through a conversation with my realtor that I had interrupted Randy on the middle of the freeway trying to rescue 6 x 6 foot pieces of foam one of his employees had just spilled all over the road.

So, when Randy called me to say there were “some problems” with the rebuild on the float, I knew it was time to sit down before asking for the details. (On top of watching The Money Pit, I also highly recommend a course in Lamaze breathing for anyone considering any sort of remodeling project.)

I’ve mentioned that my house started its life as a boathouse and that living quarters were added on over time. Well, when Randy went in to do the float rebuild he discovered that both the plumbing and electrical lines are a cobbled-together mess. As most of this is in the floors, I’m going to need to fix things before the floors get rebuilt and covered with Pergo. And there’s a whole host of other issues. (And, yes, I will post an update on the accounting once all the dust has settled, no pun intended.)

Anyway, I flew up to Portland last week so Randy could show me what had been done so far and we could formulate a game plan for the work going forward.

In my next entry, I’ll give you the photo tour of what I discovered when I got there. Just please remember–it looked like a house when I bought it.