Lint Trap

Dryer stopped drying (I capitalized "dryer" because it is an important character in this scenario).

I hate Dryer. Several friends have come over to use Dryer because it's more convenient to hang out in my house and do laundry than it is to go to the laundromat... but at the end of the cycle they check the clothes in Dryer and find the clothes still damp so they restart Dryer then eat some of my food then check their clothes again and find them still damp so they restart Dryer and eat more of my food then check the dryer again and find the clothes still damp so they get mad because all of their valuable time is being wasted and they have lots of other important things they could be doing.

Frankly, I was embarrassed. When being used for my appliances I like to deliver good service and Dryer wasn't cutting it. Something needed to be done.

So I did the following.

Intro: Call Dad using my most desperate voice so he'll agree to talk me through what to do.

Step 1: Locate the problem

1.a. check the lint trap (duh). If there's no lint there...

1.b. check the tube thingy coming out the back of Dryer. There may be a clamp you have to squeeze or a screw to undo the metal ring holding the tube thingy on. If there's no lint there...

1.c. check the other end of the tube thingy leading to outside. If there's no lint there...

1.d. get a flashlight, remove the lint trap, look inside the lint trap slot and discover a ton of lint.

Step 2: Remove the lint

1.a. recruit an endebted friend to shine the flashlight into the lint trap while you work.

1.b. use various tools and kitchen utensils to fish the lint out (I recommend a wooden spoon and a spatula).

Step 3: Run a load of laundry and hold your breath until you know if it worked.

My lint trap.

The lint I dug out of my lint trap.

The various tools I used (hint: spatula and wooden spoon proved the most effective).

Moving

380 days ago I lassoed any willing stranger into helping me move my few* precious belongings into my new house.

13 hours from now I'll pay it forward by helping my friend David move into his new house. This is one person I've helped move and in order to maintain the feng shui of the world I think I need to help 31.7 more people. Now is the time to buy a house friends. I've got protestant work ethic mixed with guilt and when in this state, I'm easily manipulated into serving others.

*My "few" precious belongings included maaaaany things I absolutely couldn't part with, and wanted to give a good damp home in my rotting basement. What can I say, I'm sentimental.

Crow Your Last Crow

The Rooster is on vacation. Or has Laryngitis. Or dare I hope...dead.

For days now I've been able to sleep until natural sounds of city life wake me. Sweet bliss is brought by the bus horn. So soothing is the hacksaw of construction. Generous portions of serenity rain down with each screaming gang fight. Now I can rest and enjoy what city life was meant to be without rural intrusion.

I don't know who to thank. Another distraught neighbor within earshot? A teenage delinquent with a slingshot? An underground cock-fighting ring?

I might even take a nap today. Why? Because I can.

Envy

My friend Mark was going to the shore with his family and asked me to watch the cat. He walked me through the detailed instructions he had typed and, just before we parted ways, handed me his house remote controlled key fob.

I pretended like it wasn't a big deal to have such fancy accessories and told him not to worry, everything was going to be fine.

The next day I made my way over to Mark's, key fob confidently in hand. I climbed the steps and pressed "unlock" twice. A whirr, then a click, then a beep told me I was safe to enter. I had exactly 45 seconds to make it to the keypad in the kitchen and press in the safety code before the alarm would sound.

Success.*

Now, to find the cat.**

With Muffins MIA I proceeded as instructed and filled the bowl with exactly 2/3 cup of her weight control cat food, making sure to reseal the bag with the provided chip clip. Her water bowls were still full, but bullet point number two in the instructions said to rinse them out and fill with fresh tap water. I did it all while admiring Mark's immaculate kitchen.

Now to the basement for the litter box. While unfinished, the space was huge and the ever important, DRY. The litter box was on a little rug and scoop had no stains. There was little scooping even needed. Muffins was either very tidy or constipated. Either way, it made my job easy. When finished, I was careful not to close the basement door. As all cat owners know, if a cat can't get to the litter box, they do still poop. Well, maybe not Muffins, but she's a rare case.

My services were done and it was time to go. I pressed the safety code again, a robot voice told me it was cool to leave, and with that, I pressed lock twice on the remote.

Done. Easy.

Then the mental and emotional turmoil set in. My kitchen is a mess. My basement is wet. My cat poops ALL THE TIME! I've got a good old fashioned case of the jealousies. And I'm so embarrassed of what Mark might think of my house, that I'll never ask him to return the favor.

*Success = cops didn't show up.

**I never found the cat.

I Have Fans!

My cousin Geoff used to work for Lowe's. I loved him more then. During that time I took advantage of his employee discount and bought two ceiling fans, one for the kitchen and one for the living room.

Recently my dad helped me hang the fan in the kitchen. It was easy and wonderful. Then came the living room. It is still not done.

This was a true "Bartleby" moment.

Me: Why can't we just hang the fan like the other one?

Dad: Because there isn't any electricity in the ceiling here.

Me: You're funny dad.

Dad: Seriously, the wire running across your ceiling is plugged into the outlet down here. And Bartleby hung the fan on this big hook he screwed into the middle of the ceiling.

(silence)

Dad: Kelly, are you okay?

Me: Bartleby!!!!!

So, we went to Lowe's with the plan to buy new wire and cover it with a plastic tube-like casing thing called a conduit. The wire would then be "up to code", a term I've learned to hate.

The conversation with a Lowe's employee named Mark went something like this:

Me: ...and that's why we need to re-wire my living room for a new ceiling fan.

Mark: Do you want my professional advice?

Me: Yes.

Mark: Don't do it.

Me: Okay, but, if we do do it, what will we need to get?

Mark: I can't recommend this.

Me: I know, but IF you did, what would you tell us to get?

Mark: This is not a good idea.

Me: I know, but IF you happen to accidentally point us toward the parts we'll need, what isle would you point to?

(silence)

Mark: That way.

Me: You're a peach Mark. A real peach.

For the record, my dad is super smart and super honest, so in the end, we ended up following all the rules. This included fishing wire through my stupid plaster ceiling (for which you need a metal wire-fishing tool) and running a whole new wire from the electrical box in the basement. This is apparently called "grounding" and involves making sure all the electricity around the area you're working on is turned off. It also apparently involves pretending to get electrocutes so your daughter completely freaks out.

In the end, there was just way more work to do than we ever could have predicted.

For now, the old fan is back up and loosely dangling from it's hook in the middle of the ceiling. The new fan is back in the box. The holes in the ceiling have yet to be patched. The new "grounded" wire is dangling down the wall waiting to be spliced into the outlet. And I'm counting down the days until my dad comes to visit again.

My Fingers Are Bleeding

When I bought my "adventure", there were projects I expected to do in the first year:

new plumbing in basement (with the help of a plumber)

fix nicks and holes in walls

paint all walls

rip up carpet

refinish wood floors (with the help of a contractor)

These are the projects I have done in the first 9 months:

new plumbing in basement (with the help of a plumber)

fix nicks and holes in walls

demolish plaster wall in bedroom

drywall wall in bedroom

paint all walls

fix singed wall from electrical fire

rip up carpet

remove 5481 staples from the floors (by hand)

remove 2 layers of linoleum under the carpet (linoleum was designed to look like wood)

gut bathroom

complete bathroom remodel (with the help of a contractor)

fix hole in dining room ceiling from bathroom leak

expose bricks in living room (with the help of a contractor)

hang new fans in kitchen and living room

complete kitchen remodel (with the help of a contractor)

hang window boxes

fix dishwasher (4 times)

Maybe there's more but at this point, all the blisters on my hands start to look the same.

One day, in the middle of the kitchen remodel, the carpet removal and plaster wall demolition, I received word from my old landlord that the crappy cat I had adopted may have brought fleas into his property. He took my entire security deposit and probably took a sweet little vacation.

What a precious.

After reading the letter with my hands covered in plaster dust, my weary and discouraged body sank onto the filthy, hazardous floor. I looked around and for the first time recognized the completely hopeless state I was in. My fingers were blistered and bleeding and a staple was solidly lodged in my heal. At that moment my furry little charity case came purring up to comfort me. His big black kitten eyes locked their gaze with mine, he opened his sweet little mouth in what looked to be a sympathetic smile then proceeded to chomp down on my arm, his razor sharp teeth sinking deeply into my defenseless flesh.

A welcome out of body experience allowed me to enjoy the entire scene from a corner of the ceiling. I saw a 20 something woman, wearing paint covered cheerleading shorts from the 8th grade, covered in paint and plaster with a young cat chewing on her arm. I saw her shoulders heaving in uncontrollable sobs and a clean pool of blood forming through the bottom of her sock. The thought came to me, "Maybe I should shut these windows so her neighbors don't hear." The crying went on for much longer than I had expected but before the shoulders stopped shuttering, a smile came to the woman's face.

And as quickly as I had left, I was back in my own body gasping for breath between the sobs... and smiling. I remember actually saying out loud, "This is amazing. This whole situation is absolutely ridiculous."

And that's when I got the idea for a blog.

What Is That Smell?

In one of my first posts I explained my habit of ritualistically raising my fist and cursing my home's former owner.

"Bartleby!" I'll exclaim whenever I find a broken door hinge or a rotting floor board. But yesterday was the "Bartleby!!!!" of all "Bartlebies!!!!"

Um...maybe not. I think the toilet leaking through to the dining room was the winner so far. But this comes in a close second.

First let me provide context.

Last summer when I bought this "adventure" of a home I discovered many clues into the life and mind of Bartleby. Like his love for shelving and vigilante wire splicing.

And cats.

After ripping up the stained carpets and having the house fumigated for fleas...twice...I thought the the problems of poor pet ownership were done. Until it got hot and humid. With a little heat and some fresh rain water the pungent smell of cat urine is resurrected in the front portico*. It hangs like a thick soup, possibly even a chowder, until the moisture from the rain recedes and the smell grows dormant...until another summer rain.

I think the problem will only be solved by getting entirely new flooring in the portico. But for the time being, I have to create a PR strategy for the smell. It's the first thing visitors will notice as soon as I open the front door to let them in. So, I've thought of a few options:

1. Pretend the smell is them and ask if they're feeling okay.

2. Warn them of the smell when extending the initial invitation, giving them the option of accepting the invite or acquiring other, less nasally offensive scheduling plans.

3. Refuse to open the glass front door until I have successfully communicated to the guest through sign language and mime technique that the portico smells of cat urine, but it's not my fault and they should forgive me and still try to have a good time

There is good news though. The smell gets trapped in the portico as soon as the inside door is closed, so with a quick entrance the smell only has to be endured for 2.927 seconds. And this smelly situation could prove to be a good test of friendship for my guests. My friends tend to be pretty gracious and loving people but can they make it through this?

*A small entrance way between the front door and the door to the living room at the front of the house. Cats love porticoes.

Vacuuming

The best thing ever in the history of the world is happening to me right now. I'm eating natural peanut butter from Trader Joe's (straight from the jar) while our Roomba cleans my floors.

Several months ago, my roommate bought a robot vacuum cleaner called a Roomba. During the first use, the glorious piece of technology failed us by thinking it was stuck under a chair while in the middle of the room. Poor thing.

So my roommate called the Roomba company and they offered her the low low price of $100 for a new roomba upgrade. She jumped at the chance.

Now we own a new upgraded model that is loyally and robotically sweeping its way past my feet. I find myself cheering it on, outloud. "Come on buddy! You can do it! That TV stand is no match for you! You can do it!"

And sure enough, it weasels itself loose and with complete dedication, continues to free the floors of cat hair.

I love this roomba. As I write, my roommate is familiarizing me with her favorite TV shows from the late 90's. While I listen, my house is being vacuumed. My dumb cat runs by, shedding with each step of chubby little body, and the Roomba, in it's magnificence, mocks him.

Tonight, because of the Roomba I get to...

Enjoy a cocktail.

Watch DVDs of a sock puppet show.

Watch my cat struggle between the desire to attack or freak out.

Eat Peanut butter out of the jar.

I love being a homeowner in the 21st century.

It's Curtains for Ya

I may or may not be a domestic genius...but I probably am.

My bedroom windows have curtains, and guess what? I sewed them!!!! No pattern, no preplanning, no real focus at all. But they look great.

Sometimes life smiles on good people. Sometimes planets align and the dice land in your favor. Sometimes fate gently rocks you in her arms and reads you "Goodnight Moon" while butterflies gently brush your feet with velvety wings. Sometimes written imagery gets a little weird.

But one of the most important things I've learned while being a homeowner is that I'm capable of a lot more than I thought I was. I think most people don't even attempt DIY projects, but the more I do, the more I realize I CAN do. I have drywalled. I have ripped up my own carpets. I have even demolished an entire plaster wall. Granted, none of these projects were fun. In fact I've started the tradition of crying uncontrollably during each DIY project. But after I've wiped away the tear stains that have rolled through the plaster dust on my cheeks, I feel strong.

I'm no super woman. Anyone can do these projects. It just takes time...and the desire.

So the curtains in my bedroom are gently blowing in the breeze as I speak. I'm a domestic genius!!!

...Though the disintegrating mortar under the kitchen window will continue to laugh at me. I will get you mortar! I will learn how to point brick!...but not today, I'm scared. Today, I am just a genius with new curtains!

What's That Mysterious Smell?

Lets face it, sometimes your house smells weird and you have no idea why.

Last night I came home. Heaved my bike up the front steps and unlocked the first door. Rolled my Schwinn clunker into the portico. Unlocked the second door. Opened the second door.

Wham.

It hit me.

"What is that smell?" I said out loud, though my roommate had left for the airport hours before.

Let the search begin. I turned every light in the house on with absolute certainty that the culprit would be illuminated. Cat puke, maybe, or a dead mouse. I wanted to be prepared so I imagined the worst.

I vacuumed, dusted, opened windows, looked under every piece of furniture...nothing. The cat playfully rolled around on the floor, grabbing my attention. I glared at him. He glared back, daring me to find evidence to prove his guilt.

Still nothing. So I went to bed.

This morning I didn't smell anything weird. Even this evening everything smells normal. Has the smell gone? Or...(horror scream!) have I become one of those people who doesn't know her house stinks!

My Aunt and Cousin are visiting this weekend. Will they love me enough to be honest?

How to Hang Window Boxes

If you want to make friends with people on your block, work on the front of your house.

Because I don't have the masonry skill to point the brick that needs pointing (look for a blog on that soon though!) and I lack a yard to landscape, my front of house renovation relied entirely on two very capable window boxes.

I've wanted to hang window boxes for months and have even had window boxes sitting my basement just begging to wow the neighborhood (Christmas gift from my delightful Aunt Connie). They're black cast iron, sturdy and adorable! But I just haven't had the time or the know-how to attach them to the brownstone beneath the window sill. According to my contractor cousin, Geoff (not Jeff), it takes a special drill bit and special screws and blah, blah, blah (I loose concentration when people talk about tools for too long).

So, I went to Lowe's to see what help they could offer.

Not much.

But I did have a hilarious interaction with one employee named Dave who advised me to seal the screw hole with "Cah-ahleck".

"What is cah-ahleck?" I asked.

"It's this white stuff that comes in a tube and you use this gun thing to squeeze it out into cracks and stuff." He answered.

"Oh, you mean caulk?" I offered.

"Yes, cock." he bashfully responded.

We blushed then uncomfortably went our separate ways.

So by the time I left Lowe's I had a new masonry drill bit, 3 1/4" long masonry screws that can hold up to 500 lbs each and a renewed sense of confidence in Geoff's advice. But when I got home I discovered that my Porter Cable cordless drill didn't have enough "gusto" as they say in show biz.

So, back to Lowe's (for the 4th time this week) to rent an electric drill that, according to the rental guy, drilled through iron.

This guy is a liar.

It took a total of 3 hours to drill 4 holes. And the 3 1/4" long screws were out of the question, so I convinced myself that if "cah-ahlecked" properly, 1 1/2 " masonry screws would be totally sufficient.

And my window boxes look darling!

Helpful Tips to Remember:

Use a masonry drill bit and make sure it's the one you need to drill the correct sized hole for the screw you're using. I used a 3/16" drill bit for my 1/4" screws.

If drilling into brick, drill into the mortar.

If drilling into brownstone, become a person of prayer.

After drilling the hole and before drilling in the screw, squeeze a little bit of caulk (or whatever you want to call it) into the hole to protect it from erosion.

Updates

The School with the banner "We Made Adequate Yearly Progress in 2005" has replaced the banner with an advertisement for the school's Spring production of "The Wiz". I will not be attending.

The Rooster has grown more daring and has taken to sitting outside the bathroom window, taunting my cat.

The Rooster in My Backyard

I have a rooster in my backyard. It crows early in the morning. When it crows it wakes up the neighbor's baby. When the baby cries it wakes up the other neighbor's dog. When the dog barks it wakes up my cat. When my cat screams it wakes me up. When I yell at the cat I wake up my roommate. What a way to start the day.

The first time I heard the rooster crow was about a week after I moved in. It was a sweltering August day and every window was opened as wide as it could go. The stale city air lazily meandered into my bedroom as the early morning light peaked over the flat rooftops. My dreams, as always, were filled with walls to paint, carpets to rip up and ceilings to mend...a dreamworld uncomfortably close to reality.

Just as I was demolishing a dreamy plaster wall and desperately gasping for a dust-free breath of air, a rooster popped out from behind my door. My dreams are weird, but this was ridiculous. I raised my hammer to scare the rooster away and simultaneously jerked myself out of my dream and back into my bedroom. I lowered my arm (still raised at the rooster) and re-closed my eyes when the sound came.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" or more realistically, "Er-er-ahh-err-errr!"...every 37 seconds.

Seriously? Did I just buy a house next to a rooster? Did I SERIOUSLY just move next door to a rooster? In the middle of the city? A ROOSTER?!!!!?

The answer? Yes I did. And he made it through the winter. This spring he is back with a vengeance! Like the phantom of the Opera, reeking havoc in the theatre, this piece of poultry roams the concrete plots of back "yard" mercilessly claiming his authority.

Maybe I should find a nice single hen to keep him company. Think they sell that on Craig's List?

Is This a Good Neighborhood or Not?

My realtor was kind enough to educate me on the signs of a good neighborhood so I kept these things in mind while house hunting. I made sure my house wasn't within a few blocks of a quick check cashing place. Apparently this is a sign of low-income neighborhoods. I also steered clear of sneakers draped over telephone lines. Apparently this is a sign of drug trafficking. I made sure my new address wasn't near a cheap take-out beer joint. Apparently this is a sign of drunk homeless people. And I made sure my house didn't share the block with any abandoned houses. Apparently this is a sign of low-resale value.

But I recently discovered a nugget of beauty. A sign I had completely overlooked and upon discovery was almost too entertained to be disappointed in my choice of housing location.

The local school proudly displays a giant banner over their front door. This banner has a message so powerful that some school administrator went through the trouble of going to the local print shop, proudly scribbling down the desired words and punctuation, waiting with bated breath for the day they could pick up the finished product, then meticulously mounting a 15 foot ladder to drill holes into the tough mortar of the school's brick exterior. This gem of a message, this proud exclamation states that (and I quote), "WE MADE ADEQUATE YEARLY PROGRESS IN 2005!"

"Adequate" progress? Is adequate progress actually banner worthy? Is it something you want to brag about? And what about the 5 years that have taken place after 2005 or the countless years before 2005? The fact that this school was proud enough to print a banner with this message and cap it all off with an EXCLAMATION POINT t brought to mind one thought: Apparently this is a sign (literally) of a really bad school system.

The Art of Hanging Art

I've had over 25 framed pictures, mosaics and paintings propped up against walls in my house for months now. Everyday I would pass these works of art and familiar faces of loved ones and dread making the commitment of placement. Hanging stuff on walls is just that, commitment (Especially when the walls are plaster or exposed brick) but I've been "dating" the decision to hang stuff on the walls for a while and it was finally time to "put a ring on it."

Knowing that this job was too big for me to do alone, I called my boyfriend. Having another person involved in the picture hanging process gives a second eye, an extra set of hands and someone to blame if it all goes terribly wrong.

Helpful tips:

1. Upload pictures of each potential wall hanging to Adobe Photoshop. This allows you to play with different wall arrangements before you begin hammering nails into the wall. If you don't have Photoshop, arrange wall hangings on the floor instead (but know you're not as cool as people with Photoshop).

2. Don't be afraid of pieces that might initially seemed mismatched. Hang the pictures and paintings you like to look at, those that make you feel happy. It's your house, your walls and your dinner guests will probably be polite enough to talk about your bad decisions after they leave.

3. Research the correct hardware to use because different wall material needs different types of hardware. Hanging heavier pictures on plaster requires a little plastic anchor thing. First drill a hole, then slide in the anchor then drill the screw into the anchor. Lighter pictures can survive with only a nail, but use sparingly.

4. Frequently thank and compliment the person helping you. Telling them they look great in that track jacket may soften the blow when you ask them to please re-plaster that section and start over.

In the end, you'll inevitably still find imperfections with your work, but remember you asked for help so you'd have someone else to blame. Hold it over their head for a little while until they offer to help you work on the next room.

Who You Callin' Trash?

Many of my loyal followers have been waiting with bated breath for more news on the Trash Battle of 2010.

Well, wait no longer my dear followers, all 9 of you...Oooo, wait, all 14 of you! Welcome aboard new comers.

So, trash day is Wednesday. Today is Saturday. So far...no trash. I'm almost afraid to exhale, scared that if I let my guard down, Heftyheftysicsac, the Greek god of refuse, will raise his ugly head and discipline my weakness.

Right now one of two things always happens when I leave my house:

1. I fear seeing more trash by my steps

2. I fear seeing the people at the offending address

So every time I leave the house, I have fear. In my defense, this is a totally normal reaction when living in a major metropolitan city. Though most people living in a neighborhood like mine fear getting shot or stabbed with a hypodermic needle.

The first fear is self explanatory. If trash is left by my house again that means the problem is not solved and I'll have to resort to posting nastier signage by my steps (and no one wants that).

The second fear is more complicated but just as valid. If the offending address and I see each other and they recognize me, that means they are the guilty parties and they know I retaliated. Their passive dumping may boil into an aggressive hatred and I may one day come home to find a broken window and missing cat (one of these things is bad).

If the offending address and I happen to see each other and they smile kindly and innocently, that means they are not the offending address and I have illegally dumped trash in front of an innocent person's house. Guilt may eat my insides until insanity sets in as a coping mechanism and I abandon trash day all together, letting the piles of garbage heap in my living room until it eats its way through the floor and the entire house caves in on itself.

Maybe to avoid all devastating circumstances, I should just go over to the house and introduce myself. What's the worst that could happen?

The Trash Battle of 2010

For several weeks, bags of trash have mysteriously appeared by my front steps the day after trash day. I took the first few offenses with grace and lugged the offending bags through my house to the back "yard" until trash day the following week.

As the problem continued, my patience waned. I had to take action.

The note I hung on my steps was simple though I went through 42 edits until settling on this message, "To the people dumping trash here...PLEASE STOP! And try to consider how inconvenient it is for me!"

It worked...for a few days, then last week another bag appeared, defiantly leaking it's rotting insides onto my concrete front "yard".

I had had enough. Snapping rubber gloves onto my determined hands, I dug through the trash, searching for an address. But these people were good. All personal mail had been eliminated which means these people had planned ahead. They knew they were going to dump their trash by my house, so they made sure to remove all evidence...except one.

Stuck to the bottom of the slimy black bag was a post card with three names and an address. I found my evidence! It felt like forever before nightfall hit, but as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, I threw on a black sweatshirt and slowly opened my front door.

My gaze scanned the length of the street. No people. The coast was clear. Stealthily I drug the bag to the offending home and dropped it by their steps, mirroring the exact place they had dropped it in front of mine. Victory!

Here's what I figure: If this is the offending address, they will know they've been caught and stop dumping their trash at my house. If this is not the offending address, they won't know where that trash came from and I'm in the clear.

But what if the trash doesn't belong to them and they are inconvenienced just as I had been? What if I'm just paying forward a nasty deed that seems like a little speck now, but may snowball into a city wide epidemic of trash dumping?

I guess I'll have to wait until the day after trash day to see if another bag appears at my house.

Yay!

Let's Play a Game of "Boo/Yay". Every time I say something bad, you say, "Boo"! Every time I say something good, you say, "Yay"!

Me: I decided to get my bathroom remodeled.

You: Yay!

Me: But my 10% off coupon for Lowe's was expired.

You: Boo!

Me: But Lowe's let me have 10% off anyway.

You: Yay!

Me: But I had to help my carpenter carry in 9 sheets of drywall.

You: Boo!

Me: But I impressed my neighbors with my incredible show of strength.

You: Yay!

Me: But the walls weren't done perfectly and looked ripply.

You: Boo!

Me: But the carpenter came back to fix it.

You: Yay!

Me: Then the pipes leaked through the ceiling into the dining room.

You: Boo!

Me: But the plumber came back to fix it.

You: Yay!

Me: But now I have to paint my dining room ceiling.

You: Boo!

Me: The carpenter and plumber said the whole thing would only take a week!

You: Yay!

Me: But it took 5 weeks.

You: Boo!

Me: But it's done now.

You: Yay!

Bathroom update

I'm out of town. Apparently so are my contractors. And when I say my contractors are out of town, I mean they're out of my town and in their own town in their own houses NOT WORKING ON MY BATHROOM!

We were hit with a giant snow storm and to some people that's scary. Snow is covering the streets, sidewalks, cars. When people dig out their own car, they're inevitably burying somebody else's. There's just no where to put the snow.

I found out today that my contractor was on his way to my house a few days ago and got into an accident. My initial thought was, "Well, if it's not serious, why didn't he come over anyway?" But I've learned through regular social interaction that a response like that isn't considered "acceptable." So, I gritted my teeth and told him to come when he can. He took that to mean, "Take an extended vacation."

So the house is still shower-less, but we've traded a shower in for a giant hole in the dining room ceiling, so I guess we're even.

My Fat Cat

My house had its first dinner party. The guests enjoyed fresh corn chowder, beautiful salad, delicious wines and between the chewing and sipping, came to the conclusion that my cat is fat. Understandably I was hurt and argued that the pendulous paunch swinging beneath his haunches was merely a characteristic of the breed. They chuckled, mistaking my defensive retort for charming humor.

When a snow storm hit later that night I wanted to show the remaining guests a special trick my cat can do. His gift can only be matched by circus dogs and people... the ability to wear a T-shirt and forget he's wearing it. The T-shirt of choice is a gift from my brother and sister-in-law who cat sat for me over the holidays. I squeezed the "Paws and Claws Country Club" cotton over the cat's head and shoved his paws through the arm holes. When the material hit his expanded mid section I glanced up at my friends in embarrassment. By golly, they were right. Refusing to admit it, I rolled the T-shirt over the bulges of fur and fat until my cat resembled a giant black, white and green sausage

We all laughed. The cat glared. The next day he went on a diet. I support his choice.

Bathroom update

I would rather be doing anything else in the world than sitting here listening to the sound of water drip into a bucket. Splat. Splat. Splat. It echos over the wood flooring and newly spackled walls. Splat. Splat. Splat. The blue bucket filling slowly with each drip.

So, my bathroom is coming along. My toilet was put in today, along with the sink, bathtub and radiator. Apparently they had trouble putting the radiator back in and broke several tiles in the process. They also ripped apart a baseboard. When I got home, I realized that the radiator was leaking. Splat. Splat. Splat.

I called. Oh, I called immediately. But at that time, I hadn't noticed the leak was working it's way down to the kitchen. Is 10pm too late to show up at my plumbers house with the look of desperation on my face? What about a look of rage? I guess I'll call tomorrow.

In the mean time I'll sleep to the sound of Splat. Splat. Splat.

Things a Good Neighbor Should Do

I want to take a quick hiatus from "bathroom talk" to make a list.

THINGS A GOOD NEIGHBOR SHOULD DO

(or, things my neighbor does not do)

1. Shovel both sides of the steps when sharing steps with a neighbor.

2. Let a little bit of salt spill on to both side of the steps.

3. Not stomp up the stairs when the homes share walls.

4. Keep trash bags on the appropriate side of the sidewalk.

5. Accept the cookies neighbors bake for them.

6. Not complain when a neighbor asks them to hold the front door while she carries her bike inside.

A Poem for My Bathroom

I took you for granted. I didn't think twice.
Of the many ways you helped. It was so nice.
We'll both admit you weren't very pretty
But hey, you're a town house stuck in the city.
You did what you could with your stained floor and walls.
And kept me from having to use public stalls.
Your drains always clogged and your faucets were rusty.
Even with bleach, they always looked crusty.
I know it was you who leaked down to the kitchen.
A drip hit my eye and I thought about switchin'
You out for a pretty and newer remodel.
I started the project that day on full throttle.
But now as I look at bare piping and stare
And feel my full bladder, I wish you were there.

A New Bathroom. #1

Working with a contractor is interesting work. I call it "work", but I could also call it "torture" or "poking myself in the eye". In fact, I'm going to change the wording right now...

Working with a contractor is interesting poking myself in the eye.

Never mind. That doesn't work. "Torture" still works though so...

Working with a contractor is interesting torture. From my experience, the expensive ones are ridiculously expensive and still a pain, so not worth it. And the cheaper ones go on vacation with their girlfriends instead of finishing your kitchen counters. So this time, I'm going with a middle of the road contractor.

Before starting the project, I got several estimates and went with the one my gut told me to go with. Actually, I couldn't really tell if was my instincts or indigestion, but something spoke to me.

Like the rest of my house, my bathroom was built in 1905. It has been remodeled since, but the remodeling includes horrible linoleum and even more horrible paneling. So, it's being gutted. The goal is to have the walls finished, the floors tiled and the new toilet and sink installed...all in one weekend.

My Middle of the Road Contractors, or my "MRCs" seem confident. I made sure they were familiar with the style of bathroom and the age of the house. My roommate and I have lined up a place to stay with friends. The cat...will have to fend for himself.

I think everything is in order and the next week or so will be an adventure!

Peeping Tom

One of my bedroom windows doesn't have blinds. To change clothes I've resorted to dimming my lights and strategically positioning myself so I'm not in full view of any neighboring windows.

While performing this difficult task several days ago, I noticed new neighbors had moved into the house diagonally behind mine. Someone was in the kitchen drinking a glass of what appeared to be milk. He stood perfectly still with his glass raised to his lips and chugged...and chugged...and chugged.

Perfectly happy to be a peeping tom, I watched for what seemed like several minutes, waiting to see him move. But he didn't. At first I thought he must be really thirsty and drinking out of a bottomless glass. But that was dumb. Bottomless glasses don't exist. Then I realized it's not a person, but a mannequin!

But it wasn't a mannequin. Just a really boring thirsty person standing perfectly still while drinking milk very slowly without doing anything interesting to entertain his peeping tom neighbor.

Shopping list:
Milk
Eggs
Concrete (lots of it)

Basement Leaks

The basement wall has started leaking. No, let me clarify…The washing machine leaks onto the basement floor and the water pump pumps it out onto the street and in the process, the water somehow leaks back in through the walls. So, it’s not just the basement wall that leaks, but the washer, the pump…and now my sanity.

Possible courses of action:

1. Fix the cracks one by one until I find the real culprit.
2. Panic

I've decided to go with option #1. The spout that pours the unwanted water from the floor of the basement into the street is the first test subject. The concrete around the spout has evidence of erosion. So, I'll cover the eroding section with a plastic bag. You might be concerned that the plastic bag will blow away and contribute to the devastating effects of pollution but don't worry, I'll taped it down with duct tape.

Now is when you're expecting me to say, "JK!", but I'm actually serious. If the plastic bag is actually covering the guilty party, the leak won't leak and I'll be able to move forward with a more permanent solution like fixing the eroded part with new concrete.

No Outlet

The man who owned the house before me took every short cut he possibly could. For that reason I have taken to raising my fist in the air and shouting, "Bartleby!" His name isn't really Bartleby, his real name is Gomer Hartofitz, but I'll call him Bartleby to protect his identity.

As soon as I signed the papers to my new house, I ran over to the property to survey my kingdom (or "Queendom" for all the feminists out there). It was disgusting, but all mine! I ran upstairs to the bedrooms to make the ever important decision of which bedroom would be mine. The sunlight streamed through the dusty air. I took a deep breath. I coughed and opened a window. I took another deep breath, this time leaning out the window. When I brought my head back in and turned, around I saw it. Gloriously adorning the wall directly above a blown-out, crusty, burnt outlet was the evidence of a fire. The singed plaster and black soot that had been hidden by one of Bartleby's many bookshelves now stared me defiantly in the face. I raised my fist.

"Bartleby!"

Notes to self:

1. 1. Open windows when spray painting inside.


2. 2. Don't try to go downstairs while dizzy.


3. 3. Don't operate small appliances while under the influence of paint fumes.

Speak to Me

Speak to Me

I don't know if it's the spray paint I inhaled today or the cat vomit I just stepped in, but something has tipped me over the edge. I've decided to blog about my new house.

Today on NPR they announced the recession is ending. No one mentioned me by name, but I know I've played an important role. I'm one of the many brave Americans who stepped out on a limb, put my heart on the line and signed a mortgage, sentencing myself to a life of home ownership.

It all began many hopeful months ago... My realtor joyfully waved to me from the open window of her late 90's Toyota. For the first of what would be many times, I bound out of my office building and jumped into the car as my realtor exclaimed, "Let's find you a house".

Friends had assured me that one of the homes would "speak" to me. But it's hard to have a home "speak" to you when you're a country-bred woman in her twenties living in a major city. And the level of difficulty increases by exactly 432% when the budget is less than what most people spend on twisty ties in a year.

Tears have come. Laughter has come. Every step of the way, painful or wonderful, has gifted me with an entertaining story. These stories I will share.

Now, please excuse me as I wash this stuff off my shoe.