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| The sweet one in the middle is St. Barbara. |
This past weekend was reportedly the hottest of the year, thus far. We were out on the lovely, rebuilt front porch just after sunrise on Saturday and Sunday. Sawhorses and scrapers and sanders. Glue and clamps and wood putty. Taking the trim we'd removed from the front room and removing decades of paint globs and caulking and whatnot.
We made damn good progress and in spite of the heat, got into a fairly productive rhythm of preparing the trim for painting. There is something soothing and contemplative about scraping off old paint and caulk, filling in the holes and sanding the whole thing smooth.
My daughter returned to Houston one week ago. I will admit to some apprehension about her arrival, no matter how happy I was that she was coming home. So I am pleased to report that the week has been delightful. It is so wonderful to see her, talk with her and laugh with her. She spent hours helping us on the porch. The three of us just working hard together in the steamy Houston heat.
I just wanted to remind you that you've had several weeks of DIY-free posts.
You're welcome.
We're not done but viruses (human) and visits (human again) have conspired to slow down our awesome progress.
That said, I told our good friend Suzanne that I would give her credit (once, then it's mine to use as if I thought of it all by myself) for her summation of my spectacular home repair skills: "I think your ovaries have descended!"
Yes, indeed.
Ach. I finally re-amped up my Google Reader after losing the original list in an email change...had a peaceful period of ignorance-filled light reading there...and now I'm whorling (yes, I verbified it) into a high-calorie, full-fat maelstrom of TED, boing-boing, fail, cake wrecks, make and all the words of my favorite bloggers, famous and infamous.
My head overfloweth.
DIY ends needing to be tied up. Post DIY detritus still clinging to every room of the house. A protest with my local property tax board looming. My project lists copulating (fertile little fuckers are they). The delightful anticipation of my son and a dear friend coming to visit...must clear a space.
Haven't seen any of the award-nominated movies. Cinematic mouth-breather that I've become. Want to. Feel compelled to see Milk but the time, man, where do I find the time?
And the grocery shopping! The uninspired meal plan! I am loathe. But daylight's burning and there's urgency on every horizontal surface. Fuck, fuck, fuck, where's the housekeeper cook chauffeur accountant gardener personal shopper when you need her? And why is the call to write loudest when everything else is screaming? Don't answer that.
Symptomatic of the State of Chaos I've relocated to: lost my tenant's rent check while walking in the tunnels this past week. Her first rent check. Out of my back pocket (where checks NEVER live). Freaked me the fuck out. Not the potential $35 stop payment fee, just the fact that I would do something so uncharacteristically careless. Good ending, though. Cynical as I sound, I think most people are honest. I mean in a 60/40 sense. Still good odds of getting fucked over but erring on the side of optimism. Someone DID find my check/deposit slip and turned it in to security at one of the corporations that anchor the tunnel. All is saved.
The odd side note: every security person I ended up talking to in the rescue effort reacted to my relief with a bit o' ol' time religion. "God is great." "Have a blessed day." And the weirdest, upon stating that I was pleased that there were still honest people in this big city, "well, honey, we all worship the same God." WTholyF? Is that a sensible rejoinder? How does one extrapolate to universal theism by the return of a lost item? But I'm not going to argue with the person holding my check ransom. PTL and pass the negotiable instrument.
Why the holy fuck would anyone EVER paint a room that was not a scabby, scaly mess? Why would you do it on a whim? For a new color? Freshen things up?
That is insane. I can't use the word fuck or fucking enough to describe the hell of painting. Because. it. never. ends.
Sure, it's going to look great. And be more solid and appealing, etc., fuckity-fuck.
Miles, people. Miles of sanding. Miles of taping. Acres of texturizing. A fucktacular quantity of plastic taped to the floor (while scuttling along in a crippling crab-crawl) that is brutally shredded every time you take a deep breath. Then, you tape the windows. (It's a small apartment. Only a freaking dozen or so double-hung windows.) Oddly enough, I have always loved tape but this experience has so put me off, I'm considering breaking up with all adhesive products.
Don't get me started on the priming. And the woodwork! Sweet screaming jesus what possessed us to leave the low maintenance caves? Why, why, why, why, why...
I hate painting. HATE it. I'll drywall. I'll build new windows, I'll tile, I'll bondo anything that moves but never make me paint again.
And when I tell you everything hurts, it's not a some cute little overstatement. There may be one vestigal second eyelid muscle that is not pulled, bruised or screaming. And, it turns out this time, there's a synergy to the pain. Yes, if you add up all the individual pains you have to square that number to explain the final angony.
And I am no crybaby! Fuck you. And fuck Home Depot for making me think this would be simple as a coloring book.
Going to bed now. Will wake up tomorrow metamorphosed into a kafka-esque bundle of sheared nerve endings unable to roll over off its back.
Changing my name to Blah, Blah DIY Blah.
Have stopped apologizing for the narrow topic interest. Just stopped talking about it. Mostly. Haven't stopped writing about it (obviously) because you can always close the window without offending me. Unless I'm standing next to you...in which case, keep reading.
Did you know that replacing the anode rod in your water heater can be the solution to rotten-egg scented hot water? I didn't. I didn't even know the water heater was a boy. Now, I have another fun thing to add to the list: rod replacement. The ever-growing list.
I understand that the area around the toilet might smell like urine. I don't forgive it, I just understand. When you're unpeeling 'n unsticking tile squares, you become acutely aware. But how come the tiles near the door of the bathroom smell like urine, too? That's not bad aim, that's incontinence.
In the Pollyanna version of this experience, I'm grateful it's only piss and not shit I'm smelling. Hallelujah.
Have discovered a new toxic waste removing product: Denatured Alcohol. Well, it's new to me, assholes. Anyway, it removed all this...grey tub cement residue and I've started calling it Good Natured Alcohol. But don't be fooled, this stuff has a furrowed-brow warning label, too.
Garage apartment renovations taking over our life.
Everything hurts.
Drywall dust in my nether regions.
Drywall mud holding together my clothing.
Used Bondo for the first time.
Boy is that Toxic Epoxy. (Say that 6 times--but keep your serious filter mask on.)
Cut some drywall and put it up. Like a holy DIY puzzle, it is.
Have spent so much time in Home Depot, I'm starting to straighten out the shelves as we shop.
Have to make a herculean effort not to allow loud groaning noises to escape when I move. Either arm. Or stand up or lie down. Then, I sound like the Tin Man. Only instead of crying, "oil can" you can just make out, "kill me now."
Set out on a trip to Perfection.
Detoured at Damn That Looks Good.
Am pricing motels in Adequate Considering.
Hope we don't break down in Who Gives a Shit.
Okay. The day had come to take our various measurements and lists and buy supplies for the garage apartment makeover. We'd spent a couple of weeks working on window restoration (see previous post) and tearing out the problem sections of the apartment. Like laminate over shiplap. That had gotten moisture behind it; and crumbled, bowed and smelled like mold. Like drywall that had gotten wet because we had a termite problem (past tense) and the wood under the window sill was like Swiss cheese. Rotten Swiss cheese. And there was drywall tape making appearances all over the place. To name a few things.
Three hours in Home Depot. Three fucking hours of comparing products and weighing the pros and cons. Three hours of occasionally finding an orange apron that knew what we were talking about and which aisle we could find it on. I can't even stand shopping for the things I really like for three hours. And I like home improvement do-it-yourself stores.
I figure we were more than halfway through the expenses on this long overdue project. Halfway through, but done for the day. $300. Holy shit. For the amount of lumber, drywall and bags of random supplies $300 really wasn't that bad. Sad side note: when we add up the total cost of this 500 sq ft job it will probably equal the patient cost of a single 1cm x 1cm dental crown. ONE crown. (If it isn't already apparent, in addition to the property tax people sucker-punching us, the dentist left-jabbed us with some staggering estimates.)
Where was I? Oh, yes, we checked out and guided the wobbly lumber dolly out to the truck. I am often irritated when men assume I need help loading up my purchases. Even if they work there. I am strong and able, dammit. On the other hand, I appreciate service and try not to polish that feminist chip I have on my shoulder. This time, I was three hours exhausted and three hundred dollars poorer, so I figured, what the fuck, let the eager guys load this heavy stuff into the truck bed. I thought about lecturing them on the wonders of bungee cords in securing a load but told myself to stop being so controlling. This was their job. I did warn them not to ding my drywall, however.
We live about 2 miles from Home Depot. It was a Sunday afternoon and the rain had finally stopped (yay, no soggy drywall!). Four blocks from the store, crossing a busy street, we hit a slight bump. The contents of the entire truck bed sailed out into the intersection.
Almost perfectly stacked.
Barbara pulled over as I jumped from the still-moving truck yelling, We've gotta rescue our investment! It is clear that that says something about me that I don't want to over-analyze. The two good Samaritans whose path was blocked by our debris got out of their truck to help us haul everything out of the street. The other three lanes of traffic resisted the urge to run over our drywall and half-dozen 12-foot lengths of lumber. Investment saved.
Next time, we load our own fucking truck.
For those of you uninterested in DIY home repair just skip this post slog through this anyway. In solidarity and because there might be a quiz when I see you next. Eric, make pretend you're me listening to you about football. There, all set?
Okay, once upon a time there was a double-hung window in our garage apartment. It was a very old window with a rotten...uh, a rotten bottom. A rotten bottom that could not be patched or epoxied or camouflaged. It was dead.
One of the rare occasions that the multifaceted and beloved
Yes, Virginia, that is green linoleum on our unrenovated kitchen floor.
Christmas was quiet. Pleasant but not particularly...festive. Still I appreciated the absence of family drama, love them as I do, and it wouldn't surprise me if the hiatus was welcome for them as well. Missed my kids more than I want to acknowledge, you know, but it's important to let them create their own traditions, yada, yada.
Learned how to glaze a window. It's like caulking only lasts longer. Messy to apply, somewhat tedious to smooth and the attention-to-detail process was tonic to my soul.
We also prepared the paperwork we'll need for our property tax protest. Our tax bill is SO out of hand, the shock moved me right past teeth gnashing and whining (okay, almost past whining) and right into survival mode. We have documentation to focus on.
Enough people know about or read this blog to put a significant damper on any scathing commentary I might have about, for instance, some of my holiday experiences. Dammit.
Okay, that's all for now. Will try and check back in between the DIY pile-ups ahead...
