Woke up yesterday with two yikes on my mind.

My parents are coming!

And…the yard is a leaf-covered mess!

Okay three…

I need to drop off the tree house Permit application.  

The third actually gives me more heart burn than the first two. Since hubs left for work already, I decide to vent to my brother-in-law who came in last night. Nothing like a heart to heart over a cup of early morning chai.

“Why is it so hard to be responsible?” This is how I start the conversation.

Arul nods his head and a smile spreads across his face. “I totally understand. There are things I just put off doing, but they’ll be right there nagging my mind. If you had any idea how many things go on in my mind at once…” Yeah, we have a bit in common.

“So what should I do? Should I just get a work out and rake the yard?”

Arul uses his arms and puts on his best big brother tone. “You just need to stop what you’re doing and F.Y.F.!”

“F.Y.F.? Explanation, please.” I’ve heard of F.Y.I.

“Face your fears.”  

I know he’s right. I gather the last of the paperwork, make sure the checkbook is in my purse, throw on some lip gloss, and head out the door. The drive over to Oyster Bay is gorgeous today, leaves of yellow, orange and  red pepper the skyline as I coast up Mill Hill back by the pond. Pulling into a spot that sits under a fifteen minutes only sign, I can only hope that the process will be quick and easy. My heart is pounding like I’m about to face a Parole Officer. At least I imagine that would be nerve-racking. Unless you’re say, the Godfather.

After I sign in, and begin ascending the steps up to the Building Permits Department, I’m acutely aware that the people up there will decide the fate of our beloved Tree House. Planning to work up some tears if necessary. Yes, it’s just that dear to us.

When I arrive at 9:15, there is only one person ahead of me in line. And he’s already been attended to. So I’m up.

There are about four employees sitting behind their desks, rummaging through papers. I guess I’ll just sit tight. Then a fellow who faintly resembles a younger version of Robert Redford approaches the desk. “What can I do you for?”

“Yes, I just wanted to turn my application in for a permit.” I hand over my papers, the check loosely sitting on top.

“Stay here a minute. Let me look through this and see if it’s complete.”

I stand there as he sits back down and begins to read through everything at his desk. Wait for it… Wait for it…

“A tree house?” I knew it would come, and I can’t help but giggle. Nervously. “This is for a kid’s playhouse?” The Hollywood-faced gentleman turns to the older guy at the desk nearest him. “Do you know what this is about?”

“There had to be something else going on. There always is in cases like this. Hold on, let me call upstairs.” This guy looks like John Goodman with white hair and a mustache. Yeah, little resemblance. Something tells me he has sat behind that desk for quite a few years.

I’m still standing behind the desk while butterflies rap up a concert in my tum-tum. I press my waist into the counter, in hopes to keep their voices down.

I can hear the older gentleman with the mustache on the phone: “What’s this about a tree house? Do you know why they need a permit? Oh. Okay. Hmmm? Okay. Let me see.”

Then he turns to me: “Okay, what is this really about? And I just want the Reader’s Digest version, if you know what I mean.”

Never ask a writer to keep it short, is what I’m thinking, but I’ll try my best.

“Well, you see we had this zip line up and some neighbors felt like it was dangerous, so they asked us to take it down. And we started, but with the snow, we didn’t finish, so they complained. Then the town, that would be you guys, came to look and next thing we knew, we had a notice on our door telling us our tree house was too close to the property at the back. So we moved it.”

“You did what? You’re saying you moved a tree house?”

It’s all on my blog is what I’m thinking, but I say, “Well, yes, so the setbacks would be correct, but we haven’t secured it yet.”

“So you’re saying the tree house is moved but not stable or secured yet?”

Shoot. Did I say too much? “Well, we thought we should wait on the permit. Does that make sense?”

“Okay hold on.” Older guy makes another call. Younger dude shakes his head and returns to his paperwork. My paperwork.

Younger R.R. looks at the architect drawings once, folds it back up. Opens it back up for a second look. Then back to the application. Then unfolds it a third time. Back to make more notes. Then he brings everything back up to the desk. I’m holding my breath.

“You’re missing the surveys.”

Oh shnap. “I left those at home. Should I…”

“Just go over to the Survey Department and get two copies and bring them back to me and I’ll give you an application number.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Just as I turn to leave, one of the female employees walks past and says, “Oooh! A zipline! That sounds like fun!”

My heart skips a beat. Maybe I’ll find favor with these Building Town peeps after all.

I walk down the hall and ask the woman behind the Survey desk for the copies and while she goes back into the vaults [not to different from the Bank where they keep safe deposit boxes if you ask me,] the guy next to me  starts up a conversation. 

“How ya doin?” New Yorker all day long.

“I”ll be much better once I have a permit.” I sigh, hoping that moment isn’t too far in the future.

“Whatcha building?”

“You’re gonna laugh, but this is all for a tree house.”

“That’s great! I mean, not the permit part, but I’m an architect and someone just asked me to design a tree house for them.”

His accent is so pronounced, I’m half expecting him to say, “And I told my friend, fugetaboutit” But he never does. 

“How cool! Do you want to see the drawing? You’d appreciate this.” I’m already unfolding to show him the sketch. It really is a beauty, and the friendly neighbor agrees.

“Funny thing is, my husband is a physician. But he loves this kind of stuff. And so he just got a couple of books from Home Depot and sort of designed this all by himself. I think he missed his calling. But hey, you have to pay the bills right.”

“Very nice. Hope it all works out.” We both have our copies now.

“Thanks. And good luck with your tree house too!”

As I walk back down the hall to the Building Permits Department, I’m more relaxed than I’ve been all morning. No one I’ve interacted with thus far has pulled out a knife or handcuffs. But now there’s a line.

I wait. No need to rush anyone and get on their bad side. As I wait, the new couple at the desk sparks up a personal conversation with Grandpa Whiskers. “How’s your mom these days?”

He shakes his head, looks down, and lets out a heavy sigh. “Not good. It’s like the longest funeral eva. Wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

In that moment, I can almost say with certainty that we have something in common. Something tells me she has…

“The Alzheimer’s is so advanced now, but she’s still holding on. Barely”

I knew it.

When the older gentleman waves me over to the counter again. I hand over the now completed application. “Sorry to hear about your mom. My hubby’s dad is just starting with that. It’s really tough. I’m so sorry.”

He nods a non-verbal thanks. Then he takes the papers back into a room off to the side. Several minutes later, he pokes his head out of the room and calls me over.

I enter this room and the only guy in the place wearing a tie sits behind the desk. “Sit down. Sit down. Hi. My name’s Tim.”

On the desk before are not only the architect’s drawings opened up, there are several color shots of different angles of the tree house. The ones the code department took no doubt. Tim seems like big guy in charge, and he’s been examining the entire file on our wooden castle. “Here’s the deal. I hate to mess with children’s play houses in general. If you want to keep things simple, just take the legs off, knock it to the ground and I’ll never have to see you again. You won’t even need a permit. How does that sound?”

My heart sinks. If the house is on the ground, it may as well be a shed. It won’t be a cool tree house that the girls have to climb up into. I take a deep breath and muster up the courage to politely say, “No.”

“The thing is, my husband had it with a slide coming off the balcony and there are monkey bars underneath it, and a few other things too. We really want to keep it with some height. What do you think? Can it stay at fifteen feet? We’re willing to lower it to twelve. But to put it down to the ground. That would be really hard for us.”

“Well, it definitely can’t be taller than twelve, but if you put it to the ground, you won’t have to spend any more money on this thing. I’ll never have to see you again. Not that I wouldn’t want to see you. No pun intended.”

Huh? What pun? He has no idea I’m an English Major. And he clearly has no idea what a pun is. Anyway, I decide not to correct his grammar. So far the conversation, although intense, has had little confrontational tone to it.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to go ahead with the permit process. I’ve already paid for the architectural drawings, so the $50 for the application is doable, and we just really want to keep the tree house as close to the way it is as possible. Is that okay?” I blink and prepare my eyes to muster up some wetness if he says no.

Tim rises and puts both hands on his desk. “Well, okay, then. We’ll go ahead and work through the details and make sure you’re following all the codes. An we’ll let you know. In the meanwhile, don’t touch the tree house until we give you the go ahead. Okay?”

The phone rings, and Tim now speaks to someone else. I stand, shake his hand and mouth the words, “Thank you so much.” As I walk out, I’m hoping his softness toward kid’s play houses will carry over to us.

The minutes have been rolling this entire time, and I’m already fifteen minutes off schedule to pick up my parents from LaGuardia. Should I ask. I take my chances with Mr. Mustache Man. “Excuse me, but if all I have to do now is hand over these papers, do I really have to go to the back of the line again?” There are several people here now and the phones behind the counter are ringing more and more. “You see, my parents are flying in and I’m late to pick them up from the airport. Could I just give them to you?” My arm stretches toward him with a polite but direct suggestion. Yes. You. 

“Well, well, aren’t you the one with a busy life. You just have so much going on, huh?” He’s smiling so I can tell he’s just messing with me.

“Well, the thing is my parent’s are coming here from Atlanta. We’re celebrating their 45th Anniversary this weekend. So it’s a little more hectic than usual.” The papers are still in my hand, but he’s reaching for them now.

“Okay. I’ll be a man and take them for you. You run along and get your parents.”

I put my hand on his arm and ask, “What’s your name?” I should have asked this from the beginning. 

“Mr. Sans.”

“Thank you so much Mr. Sans. Thank you for everything.” I want to say more. Maybe slip in a word of encouragement about his ailing mother, but the place is noisy now with the additional bodies and all the new demands and requests. So I leave it at that, and head back to the car.

And as life would have it, on the drive home from the airport, as I replay the events at the Building Department for my parents, my dad says, “That’s great. You always stay polite with people in life, even if you disagree with them. That’s how you get them to calm down. And maybe even end up on your side.”

Yes. We have a lot to celebrate this weekend. The tree house app is in. And even in that small moment, I’m reminded of just one of the golden nuggets that Mom and Dad have invested in me. People skills. And humility. 

Send hubs a text that, “The deed is done. App is in.”

He replies, “Thanks. You’re the best. Now, it’s time to partay!”

**Do you need to hear the charge to F.Y.F. today? What fears have you had to face? Do you know what a pun is? 🙂