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.