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.