grumpy about the construction project (thank heavens for ugly light fixtures)

After the kids went to sleep last night, Anthony and I spent two intense hours hunting light fixtures on the internet. What a great way to spend our precious private hours together.

Finding the right light fixture is as hard as finding a Petosky stone on the shores of Lake Michigan. The problem with light fixtures is that they are so capable of being ugly and strange. And also, it always passes that whatever Anthony and I are in the mood for is out of vogue. Right now, we want cobalt blue, like a hardcore blue:

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Very clean and simple, a hard pop of color. Simple glass cobalt fixtures were a dime a dozen ten or fifteen years ago, but nowadays anything that’s sturdy and solid is a little more fancy, and the colors tend to be soft and variegated.

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Oh well. We ended up getting the last one for our kitchen; I call it “amoeba” blue. In person, it looks a lot prettier.

We hunted ad nauseum for a full dining room chandelier that had handsome blue glass. In desperation, we finally did a yahoo search, “cobalt blue chandelier.” The images that came up were troubling.

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Is it possible to fit more ugly into one screen? Look at that Medusa head at the bottom right. Is Chihuly cringing or clapping?

I know lighting is a very personal thing, and there’s no accounting for taste. I know that’s  true for me too. But I hope, desperately, that we can agree that the following items are wrong on many levels.

* * * *

This one is on sale. For $54,700.

Does that do $54K worth of anything for you? To me it looks like they clothed the fixture in snake skin and gargoyles. Creepy.

Not to worry. You can save money and get this less creepy one for just $44,200.

They throw in the umbrella for free, because after paying for the fixture you won’t be able to afford a roof over your dining room.

Still not working for you? Try this beauty for just $16,000. It is named “Invisible” and is described in the sales pitch as follows: “Just…wow. A deconstructed floating cloud of irony, the Castor Invisible Chandelier must of been conjured up within the framework of an overwrought fever dream. Discerningly assembled from hundreds of burnt out light bulbs – with no deference given to type, base or light source – Invisible ‘organizes’ the discarded lamps around energy-efficient LEDs that are discreetly tucked away within the unconventional diffuser.”

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Just wow indeed. “A deconstructed floating cloud of irony” is what I think happens when you mix electricians with over-worked designers and weak writers. They must “of” been taking hallucinogens. But really, dear reader, you already know what I think of when I imagine a deconstructed floating cloud of irony:  gas. Post-cabbage.

* * * *

Miss your mommy and need some deep connection to your infant days? Hang a giant yellow nipple from your ceiling. Sixteen-inch-wide trove of mammary memories.

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There’s a fair amount of BDSM-ish lighting available. Build your own star chamber dining room, add proper medieval mood lighting. Because who wouldn’t want to be reminded of the inquisition while settling down to a Sunday dinner with the family?

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* * * *

I think these are from some sort of Disney-esque collection. First, the crown Angelina Jolie wore in “Malificent.” Or so I imagine.

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Next, the medallion from the top of Cinderella’s magical coach.

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Too busy, you say? Not to worry, I can out-busy that.

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BAM. Isn’t that a lovely, lovely fixture? It has so much to say to guests about you.

* * * *

So does this one. Since one of Jesse’s obsessions involves what happens to people and animals when they are hanged, this seems perfect. I can hang several of these pendants in her room to help her face her obsessions dead on.

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* * * *

I call this one “exploding pineapple reference, aka tropical mess.” I don’t know how to keep something like this clean, except with a tiny vacuum hose and a little forced air canister. Or a maid service, which I would undoubtedly be able to afford if I could afford this hideous chandelier.

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* * * *

When I look at this next one, I think of the New Year’s Eve ball in Times Square. The crystal cage really ought to move up and down the shaft randomly. I wonder if it could house a couple hamsters.

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* * * *

Feeling the need for some nature and plants but don’t feel like going outside or watering something? No worries. These chandeliers can bring nature to you.

A robin made something just like this one in our back yard last summer, so I’m not sure I could justify paying hundreds of dollars for it.

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No words, really.

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Dude! That same twig is hanging in my dining room! I better go change it out:

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Want to spend hundreds of dollars on two-dimensional cut-outs done by a kid? Go for it.

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The great thing about the bird fixture is that when you eye it on the on-line retailer selling it, you also get this outline depiction of how big it is.

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Very helpful. I can’t imagine eating at a table under a bird. It teaches all the wrong lessons: someday my kids might apply them and decide to eat under a real bird. NEVER eat under a bird. Birds shit all the time. You will end up eating bird shit, and if you have food that’s sauced you might not even notice.

* * * *

These became deformed somehow. It appears the lighting companies still want to sell them.

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* * * *

And finally, my favorites.

Stick thing. Because why wouldn’t you encase bulbs in a massive stack of white-painted twigs? Nick made one of these last week in kindergarten. I didn’t know he could sell it for hundreds of dollars.

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Baton chandelier. Yes. Batons. I cannot wrap my head around this one.

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I like this next one because it can be and do many things. First, it can be your chandelier. Then, if you ever break your neck, you can screw it onto you head as the locking vice for the brace, and it’ll also double as a head lamp. And you can walk around with stiff legs and your arms out, pretending to be a Frankenstein-style monster. This is a versatile fixture.

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Grand prize goes to the lighting manufacturer who finally found a way to up-cycle used blood-draw vials. uu567549

* * * *

As for us, we’re keeping it simple. I think we’ve settled on this blue dish.

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It’s sixteen inches wide, so it’s bigger than it looks. Yes, there is a boob-and-nipple-ish feel to it, but I think it’s less obvious and the blue color will distract from anatomical connections. And I can buy it on Amazon, free shipping. Sold.

grumpy about social media disclosure lists

I’m torn between grumpy and entertained whenever I see one of those list drills that invite you to share random — and sometimes pitiful — bits of personal information with your on-line friends. And strangers, total strangers. And also marketers and manufacturers and retailers. And the US government. Chinese spies. Because why wouldn’t you want that all out there? Why wouldn’t you want the whole world to know what you’re thinking about and how your mind works? What kind of crazy person shares all kinds of deeply personal and probably humiliating information in public places?

I did a list earlier this year that was sort of like a scavenger hunt in my mind. “Every answer must start with the first letter of your name.” Fun times, fun times.

I recently ran across a new list, an A-to-Z list. Way, way more tricky than first-letter-of-my-name, I thought at first, but then I realized I don’t have to actually come up with words starting with each letter of the alphabet so it’s just a gimmick. Still, here I sit, engaging in Extreme Avoidance and dreaming about a kitchen with actual appliances.

Anthony has just one home improvement dream. His whole life, he’s never lived in a house, apartment, or dump with a refrigerator that dispenses ice or water. It’s all he wants out of this entire project. So we are getting a refrigerator that has a water/ice dispenser built into the door. I think after it’s installed, Anthony will stand in front of that fridge and drink glass after glass of iced water until he pukes. Fortunately, the fridge will be right next to the door to the back yard, so he can just turn to his left and pull open the door before he blows.

I give the kids two months before they break the water and ice dispenser, thus dashing Daddy’s dreams once more.

Still procrastinating. I better do this A-to-Z thing.

A- Age: What crazy-ass ads am I going to see in my Facebook feed and on yahoo, based on my age? What do I want to see…? Huh. I’m 14. Again.

B- Biggest Fear: Losing a digit, limb, or large amount of blood to a power tool. That would Blow.

C- Current Time: Well I can’t answer this rightly, can I. The category isn’t specific enough. The current time as I type? When I publish this post? When you, dear reader, read it? Where I’m located? 100 longitudinal lines to the west? Or does the category maker have something else in mind — not the human construct displayed on clock faces, but some sort of socio-political statement? It’s currently time to ADMIT GLOBAL WARMING IS REAL. It’s currently time to GET DONALD TRUMP OUT OF THE PRESIDENTIAL RACE. I Can’t answer this one.

D- Drink you last had: I think this is getting at alcoholic beverages, but I’m not sure. If it means liquid beverage, wouldn’t the category maker say “last thing you drank?” Ah, but then that would mess up the “D” start. Does coffee count? Is it “a drink”? I think not. Drat. (Tequila. I’ll say tequila.)

E- Easiest Person to talk to: Everyone. I’m good with everyone. Or no one. Either way is good.

F- Favorite Song: Almost anything by PJ Harvey. Or maybe Zepp. I don’t know. What kind of stupid category is this? How can a person just have one favorite song? Anyone who just has one favorite song needs to branch out a little. I refuse to answer this one. Fail.

G- Ghosts, are they real: Of course not. Gah. And anyway, I’m not afraid of them.

H- Hometown: This is always really hard for me. I was in Seoul, Korea from 0 to 10, and then Stockton, Calfiornia from 10 to 18. I left for college and never came back to live in Stockton, though my mom and a brother still live there.  Who knows? I guess it’s Stockton, because that’s where my High School Homies are from.

I- In love with: My own Id. You didn’t know that already?

J- Jealous Of: Contented people who exist within the 25th to 75th percentiles. Just… Why?

K- Killed Someone? What the fuck? What kind of question is that? Is there more than one option for answering this on-line?? NO, just no. No, I’ve never killed anyone. oh-K?

L- Last time you cried? Now. Right now. Left eye only.

M- Middle Name: Now this is one of those questions that might be what this entire category thing is all about. I hypothesize that the category maker is actually a debt collection agency. it wants to find out middle names of peeps so that it can determine if you’re the one it’s looking for. Wait, new hypothesis. Category maker is a consortium of hackers looking for possible passwords. Anyway, my middle name is Mary. No, it’s Mango. No, it’s Marmaduke. And my favorite song is Madonna’s Material Girl.

N- Number of Siblings: In my world this is actually a somewhat complex question. I grew up with three brothers in the house, but I actually have FIVE brothers and ONE sister. It’s good to be in a place in my head where I’m comfortable acknowledging that reality.  It’s New.

O- One Wish: I want an Owl. That is all.

P- Person who you last called: Peter Piper. What, you think I’m going to tell category maker who I’m calling these days?

Q- Question you’re always asked: “What’s that smell?” (Quiet now.)

R – Reason to smile: This one is stumping me right now. Really.

S- Song last sang: One I made up. Does that count? It had to do with something Nick was whining about. Silliness.

T- Time you woke up: I’ve never woken up, not really, not in a deep metaphysical sense. I know it’s time, but my spiritual alarm clock hasn’t gone off yet. Or maybe I’ve never been asleep. It’s like that U2 song that always irritated me. “I’m WIDE AWAAAAAKE!  I’m WIDE AWAAAAKE!” bellows Bono. And then, just in case you didn’t understand: “I’m not sleeeeeping.” Thanks for the clarification, Bono Buddy.  This list is really starting to Test me.

U- Underwear Color: Seriously, TMI. Hold on, let me check. Burnt Umber.

V- Vacation Destination: Where I’ve been or where I want to go? Impossibly vague category. Frankly, any location where I’m not surrounded by minors would feel like Valhalla right now.

W- Worst Habit: Picking my nose and putting my boogers in my armpits. Oh come on. This should be under “H” for habit, not “W.” It’s so jimmied to fit here. This is the stupidest list ever. Wait. I’ve got it. My worst habit is probably micro-editing.

X- X-Rays you’ve had: Only of my Xyphoid process. It felt so good. Kind of pervie, really.

Y- Your favorite food: This is just like the favorite song thing. How can a person only have one favorite food? Saltine crackers. That’s it. Yes.

Z- Zodiac Sign: I think the zodiac is total silliness. I’ve focused magical energy in my family on Santa and fairies. As for this category, I’ve got Zip. I’ll make up my own sign: Raging Ferret. Perfectly captures my personality traits and height.

So anyway, copy these categories into your Facebook feed and answer them, in order to prove once and for all that you are my true forever friend and not just a parasitic presence in my already-sorry life.

95% of you won’t, and I have no idea why the other 5% would.

grumpy about bad jokes (okay, not really)

I put out a call on Facebook for jokes last night or today. I don’t know which, I’m losing track of time. Life is such a wreck here in my world, what with the interminable construction project and Jesse’s ongoing mental health struggles.

I’ve put out the call before, when I’ve been really down. Give me some jokes! I ask my friends. They always deliver. Laughing at inane silliness is a great cure-all for superficial, first-world depressive episodes. Almost as good as a walk in a wilderness. Also I can always call my brother Mark and ask him to do Rodney Dangerfield impersonations for me. Sometimes he just breaks into them anyway, impromptu.

Which is kind of weird, really, when you think about it too long? But that’s why I adore Mark.

Anyway, here are the jokes peeps posted on Facebook for me, that made me giggle and lightened my heart today. Some of them are inappropriate and not PC. Some of them have made the rounds more than once. Maybe you’ve seen them before, maybe you saw them on my Facebook feed, but here they are anyway so that I don’t lose them. I’ll come back to this post the next time I’m feeling put out and find myself a little less grumpy about the world — not just because the jokes are silly, but because I love that my friends took a moment to put them up for me.

* * * *

Why did the hipster burn his tongue when he sipped his coffee?
Because he didn’t want to wait for it to be cool.

* * * *

A husband and wife are trying to set up a new password for their computer. The husband puts, “Mypenis,” and the wife falls on the ground laughing because on the screen it says, “Error. Not long enough.”

* * * *

A lawyer and a Blonde are seated next to each other on a flight from Los Angeles to New York. The lawyer asks if she would like to play a fun game. The Blonde, tired, just wants to take a nap, so she politely declines and rolls over to the window to catch a few winks. The lawyer persists and explains that the game is easy and a lot of fun. He says, “I ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, you pay me five dollars, and vice versa.” Again, she declines and tries to get some sleep. The lawyer, now agitated, says, “Okay, if you don’t know the answer, you pay me $5, and if I don’t know the answer, I will pay you $500.” This catches the Blonde’s attention and, figuring there will be no end to this torment, agrees to the game. The lawyer asks the first question, “What’s the distance from the earth to the moon?” The Blonde doesn’t say a word, reaches into her purse, pulls out a $5.00 bill, and hands it to the lawyer. “Okay,” says the lawyer, “your turn.” She asks, “What goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four legs?” The lawyer, puzzled, takes out his laptop computer and searches all his references … no answer. Frustrated, he sends e-mails to all his friends and co-workers but to no avail. After an hour, he wakes the Blonde and hands her $500. The Blonde thanks him and turns back to get some more sleep. The lawyer, who is more than a little miffed, stirs the Blonde and asks, “Well, what’s the answer?” Without a word, the Blonde reaches into her purse, hands the lawyer $5, and goes back to sleep.

* * * *

What do you call a midget clairvoyant who escapes from prison?
A small medium at large.

* * * *

Three contractors are bidding to fix a broken fence at the White House. One is a woman, another is black, and the third is hispanic. All three go with a White House official to examine the fence. The black contractor takes out a tape measure and does some measuring, then works some figures with a pencil. “Well,” he says, “I figure the job will run about $900. $400 for materials, $400 for my crew, and $100 profit for me.” The hispanic contractor also does some measuring and figuring, then says, “I can do this job for $700. $300 for materials, $300 for my crew, and $100 profit for me.” The female contractor doesn’t measure or figure, but leans over to the White House official and whispers, “$2,700.” The official, incredulous, says, “You didn’t even measure like the other guys! How did you come up with such a high figure?” She whispers back, “$1000 for me, $1000 for you, and we hire the Mexican to fix the fence.”

* * * *

A painting contractor was speaking with a woman about her job. In the first room she said she would like a pale blue. The contractor wrote this down and went to the window, opened it, and yelled out “GREEN SIDE UP!”
In the second room she told the painter she would like it painted in a soft yellow. He wrote this on his pad, walked to the window, opened it, and yelled “GREEN SIDE UP!” The lady was somewhat curious but she said nothing.
In the third room she said she would like it painted a warm rose color. The painter wrote this down, walked to the window, opened it and yelled “GREEN SIDE UP!”
The lady asked him, “Why do you keep yelling ‘green side up’?”
“I’m sorry,” came the reply. “But I have a crew of blondes laying sod across the street.”

[My brother Ted was obsessed with dumb blond jokes for a couple years. I’m not sure what to make of them, but I realize it’s  an iconic thing. I guess you could just replace the word “blond” with “some dumbass.”]

* * * *

A couple of New Jersey hunters are out in the woods when one falls to the ground. He doesn’t seem to be breathing, his eyes rolled back in his head. The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls 911. He gasps to the operator,”My friend is dead! What can I do?”
The operator, in a calm soothing voice says:”Just take it easy. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.”
There is a silence, then a shot is heard. The guy’s voice comes back on the line. He says:”OK, now what?”

* * * *

So, Trump walks into a bar. . . wait, that’s not at all funny.

* * * *

What do you get when you cross an insomniac, an agnostic and a dyslexic?
Someone who lies awake all night wondering if there really is a dog.

[Anthony, who usually doesn’t laugh at jokes, says he actually gets this one.]

* * * *

A Frenchman walks into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder, and the bartender says, “Wow, that’s really neat. Where’d you get him?”
The parrot says, “Oh, I got him in France. There’s millions of ’em over there.”

* * * *

A guy runs into a doctor’s office and says “Doctor, please help me. I think I’m a moth!”
The doctor says, “But I’m an internist. You clearly need a psychiatrist. Why did you come to see me?”
The guy says, “I had to come in here. Your light was on.”

[The person who posted this must know Jesse and Anthony well.]

* * * *
Jeb Bush, Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders are on a plane that’s about to crash, but there are only three parachutes.
The first passenger yells, “I’m Jeb Bush, let the big dog eat! I can’t afford to die.” He takes the first parachute and jumps.
The second passenger, Trump, runs screaming, “I’m the smartest man in the world and the next president of America!” He grabs the second parachute and jumps.
The third passenger, Clinton, says to Sanders, “Take the last parachute.”
Sanders answers, “It’s okay, Hillary, there’s a parachute for both of us. The world’s smartest man just took my backpack.”

* * * *

A grandmother is walking with her little grandson on the beach when a huge wave rolls up and sweeps the boy out to sea. She is distraught, falls on her knees and cries out to God, “Please, Lord, save my little grandson! He’s so precious to me! Please, please bring him back to me! I’ll do anything!”
A few minutes later, she is still wailing when the boy washes up onto the beach, coughing and wet but very much alive and well. She is overjoyed, hugs him tightly, and looking up to the heavens, she says, “He had a hat?”

* * * *

Two guys out walking their dogs come upon a bar. They really want to go in for a drink but know they can’t take the dogs in with them. The one guy says, “I’ve got an idea! We’ll put on dark sunglasses and say these are our service dogs.” They agree this is brilliant and the first guy puts on his glasses and walks into the bar.
The bartender looks up and says, “Excuse me, no dogs allowed in here.”
The guy responds, “But this is my service dog.”
The bartender eyes the lab/shepherd mix, notices the dark glasses, and asks the guy what he’s drinking.
The second guy puts on his sunglasses and walks in. The bartender says, “Hey, no dogs in here!”
The second guy says, “It’s my service dog.”
The bartender is incredulous and says “A chihuahua? No way!”
The second guy says “What?! They gave me a chihuahua?!!”

* * * *

What do you get when you cross a penis and a potato?
A dictator.

* * * *

What do you call a cow that’s just had a baby?
Decalfinated.

* * * *

I thought I saw an eye doctor on an Alaskan island, but it turned out to be an optical Aleutian.
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No matter how much you push the envelope, it’ll still be stationery.
 * * * *
Atheism is a non-prophet organization.
 * * * *
When cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.

* * * *

And a couple peeps posted up images.

Check out the creepy mannequin head scarecrows.  http://www.cnn.com/2015/09/21/travel/japan-mannequin-head-scarecrows-irpt/index.html

And this silliness.

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And for some reason I’m reminded of something a friend posted on my birthday, which told me she understands what goes on in my mind.
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It seems to me tonight that not giving a shit, at least in the right ways, is the root of happiness. Sometimes the world wraps itself around my neck and makes me forget this simple truth.

Thank you, my friends, for the gift of some laughs and giggles. A little love goes such a long way. Maybe people don’t suck.

Less grumpy about the construction project

Well then. The day has passed and I’m feeling less pissy. 

Part of it is just acceptance, like accepting the sharp pebble in your shoe because you’re running from a fire and can’t stop to pick the pebble out. Best to avoid being burned to ash than worry about the pebble that’s tearing a bitterly painful hole in your flesh.

I’m not sure that metaphor works. Does it work? 

No. 

Part of it is deciding to do some work ourselves to cut costs. It’s a simple trade off that eases budget pressure and gives me some mental relief, but it’s not pain-free. The considerable time we’ll spend doing additional work is time we can’t spend doing stuff with and for the kids; but at least we might be able to afford some Christmas gifts for them. 

Part of it is just venting. Here, to a few friends, to Anthony, to the thin air as I drive from here to there. Venting always makes me feel better when I’m full of emotional gas. 

Probably another metaphor that doesn’t work. 

Part of it is just adjusting expectations of what peeps are capable of, including myself of course. No one likes to accept responsibility, take a hit and apologize for screwing something up. It takes maturity and courage, and confidence – not hubris, but awareness that admitting a screw up and seeking a compromise doesn’t mean you suck.

Jesse struggles with this at extreme levels, but maybe it’s just part of the universal human condition, something we all contend with to one degree or another. 

Part of it is just choosing a moral path in my own estimation of things. If someone has to be stiffed, do I want to be the stiffer or the stiffee? I’ll take the latter, thank you, if those are my only options. I’ll feel better about myself and have no regrets. I’ll wipe my hands of it and carry no burden in my mind. 

Which is all surprisingly metaphysical for someone grumpy and simple like me. 

I’ll tell you what it actually probably is. The painter and drywall guy worked hard long days today without goofing off. I finished building a tabletop and did some plastering and painting myself. I made some solid plans for installing cabinets ourselves next week. There was actual progress. Having work actually happen, instead of just talking about it, makes everything a little more palatable. 

Grumpy about the construction project (and bleak. Bleak and grumpy)

I’ve been pretty down for the past couple weeks about our project. Things have just slowed down and slowed down. It feels like the peeps who are supposed to get things finished are moving on to other projects and disregarding the need to close out our job. Finishing something up is always the hardest thing. I guess I expected professionals to do it better than me.

Our kitchen door still isn’t in. It was supposed to go in a couple weeks ago. Instead of the door, we’re staring at the back side of siding. A kitchen window still hasn’t been replaced. I don’t know why. I’ve asked several times. The last time I asked, I got a shoulder shrug and an innocent stare in response. Literally.

It doesn’t leave you with the warm-and-fuzzies.

Now I’m hearing a bunch of whining about not being paid, and threats to not do any more work, and lectures about how “the industry” works, and blah blah blah and money money money. This is a financed project. Everyone knew it going in. This is not a surprise to anyone. The only thing that’s a little shocking is the fact that getting money out of our construction escrow funds at Wells Fargo is a slow and sticky process, as bad as pouring cold molasses out of a jar. It’s mind-numbing.

We’re over budget, of course. But not for pretties and fun things; for basic work. You sort of expect bidding on basic work to not be so far off, but I guess you never know. Once contractors have you by the figurative construction balls, you’re trapped like a mouse in a maze. You have to pay. And how much work would I have to do to figure out if all the invoicing is accurate and fair? How would I know if the guys billed me for time that they were sitting around chatting with me and eating the pizza I bought for them? I guess I could argue about it and see where we get, but if Anthony and I even discuss it in front of Jesse, she gets really agitated and worried. And it stresses me out too. So we try to take those cues and remember that it’ll all work out eventually. I guess.

I painted the bottom half of our home’s exterior over the weekend and discovered that two kitchen windows that were installed  as part of this renovation have the worst caulking job ever where the wood trim meets the window. Nick could have done a better job – gaps everywhere, and the caulk wasn’t pushed into the joints as it should be. I’m going to have to cut that caulk out and start over unless I want those windows to rot out in a year. Will anyone apologize to me for that, or for the laundry chute door that got destroyed and tossed even though it wasn’t supposed  to, or all the little things? Actually correcting the mistakes was what I hoped would happen, because doesn’t that seem like what should happen? But at this point, I’d settle for even an apology and an acknowledgment of any mistakes, because not even that seems to be coming.

I guess I could ask the contractor to fix the poor workmanship on the caulking, but how would I know that he’s not charging me time and materials again for that? Apparently this is a time-and-materials kind of thing, and how would I ever know if he’s double charging? We’ve blown the budget without knowing it until after the fact, and now I’m scratching my head to figure out how to cut corners. Maybe I’ll have plywood countertops in the kitchen instead of granite? Vinyl flooring instead of wood?

And god forbid I should ask for some information, so that I can figure out just these sorts of things: how much money do I have left to put in pretties? You ask for information, and contractors lose their shit. Why does transparency upset the construction industry so much? Is it cultural, or is something hiding back there? Why not just give me information regarding how my money is being spent, so I can make informed decisions? I’m not trying to rip anyone off. When someone hints that this is what I have in mind – not paying for work that’s actually been done – just because I’ve asked for information, I get really, really irate. I’m no deadbeat. But that reaction makes me think of things like the figurative mirror (I believe you tend to see in others what you know is in yourself) or a skunk smelling itself first. Then my thoughts start racing and I end up nowhere good.

First world problems, I know. It’s a bad sign when I’m reduced to a string of rhetorical questions.

Grumpy about the construction project (take your dog shit home with you)

At least one dog walker has been leaving giant bags of dog shit in our dumpster. Unless I retrieve the bag, that means the shit will sit there for weeks and weeks until this project is finally done. So I have to reach into that nasty dumpster, full of all manner of construction waste, workers’ fast food garbage, and festering rain water, and pull the bag out to put in my regular garbage can. 

Let me send this open letter to any person who would throw a bag of their own dog’s shit into a dumpster in front of someone else’s home: 

Dear dog-shit-dumping neighbor,

ASSHOLE MOVE. Does this really need to be explained to you? Of course not. You know what you’re doing is wrong, because you only do it when no one is looking. Being a sneaky asshole is no better than being a bold and brazen asshole. 

Please knock on my door the next time you fling your dog’s shit into my dumpster. We can chat and share a beer or two. Then I can oblige your shit-swapping habits and come take a dump in your front yard. 

Sincerely yours, etc.

I shouldn’t have had to put up this sign. It probably won’t make a difference anyway. 

  

grumpy about the construction project (combat crawling toward the finish)

The reality is, not much work has been happening around here. Not nothing, but close to it for the past couple weeks. There were a lot of blank hours that could have been filled with the hum of various contractors doing stuff. I know it happens, but when you’re living in a trashy, filthy dump like we are for now, you just want things to move along.

* * * * * *

Drywall was supposed to be installed this week, starting Monday.

Instead of boards being attached to walls Monday, which is what I thought “starting” would mean, Greg the Drywall Guy came by to do a board count. The properly-counted drywall was supposed to be delivered Tuesday, so then “rocking” could begin Tuesday afternoon.

I thought it was called “hanging drywall,” but apparently they call it “rocking” now. It’s done by… go on then, you can guess… ROCKERS. Rockers rock the walls.

I really want to see what rockers look like. Long hair? Face paint? Spandex pants and groupie T’s? Big tongues?

I’m learning that drywalling is a bifurcated profession. There are the rockers and there are the bedders. The rockers rock, the bedders bed aka tape-and-mud. The latter guys are the high skill element of the trade – they apply tape to joints and do all that fancy mud work that makes not-flat walls look flat. It’s an art, in my opinion. Greg-the-D-Guy does the bedding, but he subs out the rocking.

Tuesday came but drywall didn’t. The truck broke down.

I’ve heard that one before.

Wednesday came and the drywall was delivered. Most of it, anyway. But no rockers. They were maybe going to make it in the afternoon.

Heard that one too.

They didn’t make it.

Thursday (today) came. They would definitely be here. In the afternoon. They weren’t.

Two guys showed up in the evening, two hours later than Greg anticipated. They had gotten lost, after stopping for a meal.

Heard that one too.

The rockers (I’m disappointed to report that they looked like ordinary men; no face paint) walked around the house with Greg and he showed them what they’d be doing. They were going to work until 7 pm and then come back tomorrow afternoon and Saturday. Greg left, and the guys promptly went into the garage and started texting on their phones and doing nothing. By the time we left for a quick dinner out with the kids (since they were going to be rocking the house), they were out by their car texting. When we got back 30 minutes later… they were gone. No rocking happened.

Apparently they were texting their boss, Greg’s sub, because they decided they weren’t being paid enough.

I’ve been promised a crew Friday morning, starting at 6:30 a.m., to get the job done.

Heard it. I do not believe it. Even if it actually happens, I will assume at this point that I’m hallucinating.

This is Greg.

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I already like Greg for several reasons. One, he wears a shirt that says “Greg.” This keeps me from calling him “Gary,” which I seem to be wont to do. I’m so bad with names. Two, he’s cheerful and optimistic. Yesterday he encouraged me to be those things too, right when I needed to hear it. Three, even though things weren’t ROCKING around the house, he spent quite a bit of time here setting things up, fussing over where and how the boards were organized by the delivery guys, and getting some uniquely-shaped patch pieces installed. He seems to want things just so. Very maternal. Four, he says he wears stilts when he muds the ceilings, and he might let me give them a try. Greg seems alright.

In the photo above (if I were still lawyer, some stupid partner would have edited that to say “the above photo,” so thank goodness I’m not a lawyer anymore), Greg is talking to Erick Kurber, the Carpenter Guy. Remember Erick, the guy on the roof? Mr. Aristotle who invites you to put more “K” in your home? Gary — sorry, Greg (good thing about that t-shirt, I hope Greg doesn’t think it’s weird that I keep looking shiftily at his right pectoral) passed on this question that Erick was asking him: “Ask Carla if she’s having a cardiac arrest because the drywalling hasn’t started.”

Or something along those lines. I think Erick is mocking me.

And who wouldn’t mock me, what with all those parentheticals. JEEZ. It must be my head cold, and also the oil-based primer I put on some exterior trim and siding today. It’s making me loopy.

* * * * * *

While the drywall wasn’t getting done this week, at least insulation happened. Yes yes, I’m finally admitting it. That wasn’t a giant woodpecker that made all those holes in my walls, and it wasn’t a snake sneaking into the house. That was the insulation being blown into the wall cavities.

Today John the Mason came by and did the brickwork for the front of our house. Remember this elevation?

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That space covered in Tyvek wrap is where brick went today. I sat in a chair nearby John and took pictures and watched him work for a good half hour throughout the day. He claims he doesn’t mind. I took videos and photos. It is an incredible art, what talented master masons do. John is a third-generation mason, and if you spend time with him, you can just sense that the craft is in his bones. He laid the entire wall with the help of a little level (which, as far as I can tell, he barely used) and a string. He didn’t need anything except his instinct to make the bricks plumb and level, and he placed them with careful attention to appearance and balanced tone.

He chatted with me as he worked. He talked about life, his family, his brothers, his work; and he taught me a little about his craft — how the bricks are laid and tied to the stud wall, how the mortar is mixed and handled, how to get it to stay on the trowel instead of fall off, why you leave a small gap between the wall and the masonry, on and on. I felt honored to sit and soak in some of his experience and wisdom.

Here’s John in his element.

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The string thing. Somehow that little wood jig attaches to the grid and it lays the level line that John eyes for the next three or four courses of brick.

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Here’s a view of the metal ties that provide a safety anchor to the stud wall in the mortar joint.

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Progress.

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Look at how straight that wall of brick is. Eyes and hands is all it took. Beautiful.

Tool envy. Want. I don’t know what I would do with it, but I want a mini-mortar-mixer now. I want to pull it behind my car and use the car line when I pick up the kids. The way some people feel, all proud and showing off when they pull up in their Mercedes (Mercedeses?) and BMWs? That’s how I would feel about having this thing behind my station wagon.

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And the finished product.

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Beautiful.

Nick trotted over and inspected it, just moments after John finished cleaning up. “WHY ARE THE LINES A DIFFERENT COLOR THAN WHAT IS ALREADY HERE?”

Already a critic. That’s my boy.

WOODPECKER. SNAKE. ANIMAL.

Insulation work was supposed to happen yesterday and today as part of our construction project. Something about increasing the insulation in existing parts of the house so we don’t have arctic drafts in the winter.

But I don’t think the insulators showed up. I came home and discovered instead that some sort of woodpecker, presumably something prehistoric and of Jurassic size, had attacked walls all over our house.

In the front entry room.

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The living room.

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The powder room that I just painted last week.

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The stairwell to the basement.

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The stairwell to upstairs. I didn’t get a shot until after I had patched the NINE holes in this particular little stretch.

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And more. Closets, bedroom walls, living areas all over the house. This particular woodpecker left perfectly round, two-inch holes. I know it’s an animal and not a crafty human because the holes are not in straight lines but rather have a certain random quality to them. This will make it even more fun to patch the holes, including plastering and sanding them 400 times each until it’s no longer obvious that a bunch of holes were made in the walls. Given my horrendous drywall plastering skills, I should be done with this patch job some time in 2017.

I also spotted a large snake trying to sneak into the house. I saw part of it near this truck, and I followed it.

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Across the yard…

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Behind the PODs container (sneaky snake)…

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Through our little front garden…

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Over the little fence and into the house.

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Where it rounded the corner and headed up the stairwell, disappearing somewhere upstairs.

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It was a semi-transparent beast and something was rattling swiftly through it, so depending on which end was in the house, it was either vomiting or pooping. I never found out, because I ran back out of the house after seeing it this far.

Sigh. I don’t know what is going on around here, but I have noticed this evening that the house is quite comfortable, albeit completely filthy.

Some guys came by this afternoon and stacked bricks in anticipation of masonry work tomorrow. Isn’t that neat and orderly?

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It actually took me quite a while to take this placid picture. Some ANIMAL kept photo-bombing my shots.

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There are a lot of beasts around these days.

grumpy about the construction project (random update)

It’s been more than two weeks since I posted something about our renovation. At this point, we are truly overwhelmed and numb. The kids started school a couple weeks ago, and I think Jesse quite nicely captured all of our moods when she posed for her dad’s camera as she headed off to her first day:

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Nick, on the other hand, remains indifferent to the current reality of our lives. In fact, he seems pretty indifferent to reality in general. It’s great to be six and remarkably well-adjusted.

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Here’s a seriatim update on what’s going on with our house.

I know, I know, WTF language is that? It’s lawyereeze. If you look it up, dictionaries will tell you it means something like “in a series” or “in order.” But when I was growing up in the trade, lawyers used it in briefs to mean “in no particular order,” so seriatim is a really, really short way of telling the court this: I have a bunch of stuff I want to tell you, and I’m going to do it like a random list because I didn’t have time to organize it well, or at least none of the points are related so I can’t really organize it at all, and I used a fancy Latin word to say all that so please forgive me and get over it.

In other words, don’t expect me to be witty or to have a point here, peeps. I’m just passing on information randomly as it comes to mind. And also photos.

Right, so here’s what’s going on.

* * * * * *

We passed some inspections. That’s a good thing. Electrical, HVAC, insulation, some other stuff I can’t remember.

When you pass an inspection, the inspector leaves a green tag somewhere in the house. We stick them in random locations around the house, like these three that are attached to the kitchen door.

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But the insulation guy handed me the “approved” sticker instead of tagging something, and I knew exactly where it belonged.

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Because my body has enough insulation these days to exceed all modern building code standards by an unhealthy margin (though I don’t know if building codes allow the use of blubber in lieu of fiberglass batting). That’s Kristi behind me. I don’t usually do selfies, but passing an insulation inspection calls for one. Doesn’t she have a great smile? That woman is so upbeat it drives me crazy.

I’ll make her grumpy yet.

* * * * * *

We’re refurbishing our powder room. I used to call it a toilet or half-bath, but everyone in the TRADE calls it a “powder room” so I’m going with the flow. It wasn’t really supposed to be part of the job, but the flooring in the whole area needed to come out, and that meant the toilet and vanity needed to come out, and then since the plumbing was accessible… you know how those dominos tumble. But we’re doing most of the work ourselves because it wasn’t part of the original project and we’re cheap.

You’d think I could take a before photo of this little room. But no. That would require planning.

Here’s the after effects. Drywall patch where the plumber ripped into the wall to update the lines.

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That is not drywall mud stained with my blood sweat and tears. It’s just pink until it dries. I cut the little holes for the plumbing perfectly.  PERFECTLY, I tell you. I could not make that happen again in a million years.

And that plywood on the floor you see, I put that in for the tile underlayment, and then here’s a shot after we put in the backer board and waterproofing and crack isolation membrane (please, no butt crack jokes):

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I have no idea why it’s out of focus but it’s too late to do anything about it.

Then we tiled. Anthony had this lark of an idea involving a yin-yang, so we went with it. We installed one-inch hexagonal mosaics, and we just pulled out a few of the white tiles in appropriate spots.

I like this shadow-look, right after we did that, with the blue crack isolation membrane showing through.

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Then after we inserted the black tiles and the baseboard trim pieces it looked like this.

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And then we put a bolder yellow paint on the walls and installed baseboard trim tiles and grouted.

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Once the toilet and pedestal sink are in, you will be able to sit on the shitter and speak your universal ohm in whatever way you please as you stare at that yin-yang, and then you can stand on the yin-yang as you wash your hands, breathing in your inner peace since you have just flushed away your impurities.

Anthony has the best ideas.

There are some minor technical difficulties involving the tolerances around the edges, because this is an old not-level little room, and I couldn’t get the hex tiles close enough out to the edges for the baseboard tiles to cover because they’re not thick enough, so now we’ve had to order some black quarter-round tiles to install like trim around the base. Nothing is easy in a renovation.

* * * * * *

Bob the Plumber did a bunch of plumbing and Mike the Electrician did a bunch of electrical work. Bob really likes clean angles for plumbing, and I have to say, I am all for it. Look at this work of art around the utility sink and its exposed cinderblock wall.

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Look at how beautiful that is, how he works his way around the other mechanicals with beautiful lines and spacing. It looks like part of a circuit board.

Do you see the electrical lines to the left in that frame? Here’s a better shot.

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Oooooh Mike, Mike, Mike. You gotta do better than that to keep up with Bob the Perfectionist Plumber.

I’m not being fair. Mike’s going to clean that all up when the finish electrical work is done and he hooks all that spaghetti to the circuit panel. Mike is just as fastidious as Bob. I’ve gotten a lot of lectures and information from those two guys, and I don’t mind at all. I like more information better than less, and it’s nice to have contractors who actually deign to tell me what’s going on instead of patronizing me.

Even if most of the time I have no idea what they’re saying, so I just nod and say, “uh huh, uh huh,” as though I have a clue.

* * * * * *

Insulation happened. Remember all my bare stud walls, and in particular the gaping opening into the garage?

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All better. Insulation is installed in the wall cavities now, and it really made the house feel more closed up and clean. It’s all covered in giant plastic sheets that serve as a vapor barrier. The sheeting covers all the windows and stuff too, so that the drywallers can just go crazy without worrying about getting mud all over things. It makes sense and also it’s kind of weird, like a whole-house condom.

See that misty look over the windows? I thought there was something wrong with my contact lenses and rubbed my eyes for a full 20 seconds before realizing the windows are just covered by the plastic vapor barrier.

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The insulation isn’t the color I expected. I thought it would be pink. Insulator Man told me this is some sort of environmentally friendly stuff, not so much toxins and chemicals. Yay.

* * * * * *

Anthony and I have been doing some rough carpentry.

We replaced some sections of subfloor planking, along our main travel path through the house, which were really cracked and were frightening the children.

Here’s an illustrative spot. Old pieces out.

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New pieces in.

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This was a remarkably challenging task. I had to use the circular saw, set to the correct depth, to cut the old planking out along a line that was halfway on a joist, but without cutting the joist itself. Since the blade is round, we had to finish the corners of the cuts with chisels. Hypothetically you could wing it with a reciprocating saw, but we don’t have those mad skills. I guess you could use some sort of grinder with a small circular blade, but I don’t have a grinder.

I should really get one.

Then we had to measure and set those angles to cut replacement pieces out of OSB, because it’s too expensive and annoying to get planks that are the correct width, and waste pieces of OSB were lying around from the project so they were “free.” (We’re still paying for it, of course, but you know what I mean.)

We put in the second layer of plywood underlayment in our future master bathroom, to support floor tiles. We had to make some notch cuts in the plywood, which once again raised the issue of how to finish a cut that you make with a circular blade. There’s always this little bit left at the bottom. As I trotted off to get a hand saw, Anthony hollered, “it’s okay, I’ve got it.” And he laid into the plywood with a tree pruning saw.

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Sigh. Englishman. So practical and brutal.

But it worked. And how could I get mad at a grown man wearing a shirt covered in glow-in-the-dark paw prints of North American mammals?

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My man. I love him so much that it makes no sense at all.

We also studded out a little book cubbie in our future master bedroom —

I hate that word “master” in this context, by the way. it sounds so, so… antebellum. Why not just call it what it is, which is “the homeowners’ bedroom.” Or “the parents’ bathroom.” Why are we still talking about masters?

Right, so a blasted cubbie was supposed to go in an otherwise-lost space between the parents’ bathroom vanity and the kids’ bathroom tub. But twice, the carpenter stuck nails into the water line running into the tub. Ejemplo:

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Argh. It may look like an innocent nail, but water just pours out of a nail hole like that. Twice, aka two times, the carpentry crew put nails in that same pipe. So I finally said NEVER MIND and we decided to stud the cubbie out ourselves. We also decided to make it much more shallow, to avoid any possibility of nails or screws from studs or drywall getting anywhere near water pipes. Here’s the space I’m talking about.

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See that cavity where the little remnant of insulation is? Whenever I look in that future cubbie, which will have a deep bit of unused space behind it, I think of Edgar Allan Poe and a Cask of Amantillado.

What exactly is behind that little piece of insulation? A carpenter who drove too many nails into my pipes…?

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Creepy tense music in the background….

Oh thank goodness. Nothing.

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And if I do ever hear anything scratching back there, I can just break the drywall with a taekwondo punch (accompanied by a mighty loud KIYAP) and set whatever is in there free. Brick masonry would be much harder to deal with.

* * * * * *

The shower pan is in for our parents’ bathroom. I like to lay tile and do underlayment and such, but pouring a custom shower pan is beyond my pay grade. You need mad, mad skills to do something like that. Joey is Kristi’s tile guy, and he agreed to pour our shower pan even though we’ll be laying the tile ourselves. Joey’s a firefighter in real life, but for fun he does tiling.

Here’s Joey, posing with Talon from the carpentry crew:

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Look how perfectly their baseball hat brims are broken in. That’s the kind of commitment I like to see in contractors who do work on my house.

So here’s what the mud looks like that becomes the shower pan. It’s got the texture of… buttermilk biscuit dough, after you cut in the butter but before you add the liquid. That was not what I expected.

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Then Joey got in there and did stuff that involved pushing the crumbly mud here and there, and packing and screeding, and dropping little plops of the crumbs in spots that weren’t perfect, the way a pastry chef might plop a bit of flour as he worked a puff pastry dough out to size.

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Mad, mad skills. Here’s the finished product.

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One tile-ready shower pan, slanted to drain just so. Anthony and I installed the wonderboard on the walls, which is why that part looks messy instead of professional.

* * * * * *

Tools are always a thing. My Makita cordless power drill died about a week ago, so I had to get a new one. I’m a Makita girl, but that Makita drill really didn’t hold up too well. A good power drill should last more than 10 years, most of which are dormant. I went back to Dewalt so now I have a Dewalt 12-volt drill with those new little batteries. Much lighter. I could have gotten a 20-volt, but I already have a corded Milwaukee keyed-half-inch-chuck drill, so I didn’t need that much power.

I know, I know. I’M A TOOL DORK. Would you ever have guessed?

So here’s my latest Home Depot story. I finally caved in last month and bought a jigsaw. I’m not a jigsaw fan. I think of jigsaws as Girl Saws. They’re lighter, and they’re offered up in TV shows as an easier alternative to more powerful and effective tools. Screw that. I say, Girls, go for POWER. But a jigsaw has its place in the pantheon of cutting devices, so I finally took the plunge. I went to Home Depot, because I don’t know why, and found a good-looking Makita. It turns out, my new Makita jigsaw requires a B-SHANK blade. But Home Depot doesn’t carry B-SHANK blades. Typical. Home Depot sells a power tool, but doesn’t sell the replacement blades that would allow you to ACTUALLY USE THE TOOL.

I hate Home Depot.

* * * * * *

In all the swirling commotion, we decided to go ahead and repaint and spruce up our one original full bathroom, which in future will be the kids’ bathroom. Like much of the house, it was some shade of tan. Actually, the tiles in there are sort of flesh-tone which I find extremely unappealing. This is what it looked like before, after the towel rack fell off.

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My iPhone actually captured the colors pretty well in this pic. isn’t it hideous? Oh and by the way, do you see the location of the air vent right behind the toilet? Word of advice to all future designers and builders: never, ever, ever put an air duct in a location where small boys might be potty training. BAD IDEA.

We’re too lazy to rip the tile off in the midst of everything else that’s going on, but I picked a new color for the walls and I spruced up the white trim and cabinetry with a brighter shade of white.

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I was mighty pleased with my color choice. I think it’s cheerful and perfect for a kid’s room, but not too tacky. And it’s strong enough to take attention away from the flesh tiles. I’ve now attached a hotel-style shelf and towel rack over the toilet, with plenty of wood bracing installed from the other side of the wall cavity (sorry, no picture).

I asked Anthony what he thought of the color. Actually, I encouraged him to be positive about it. “Isn’t it a great color, Anthony, huh? Huh? Don’t you love it?”

“It’s a lot like one of those loud Korean colors, like from the Korean quilts your mom has.”

Englishman.

I asked Nick what he thought of the new color, as he was taking a bath the day after I painted. He snorted. “Actually, mommy… I didn’t even notice it!”

From boys to men.

* * * * * *

Tomorrow, drywall installation begins. This is huge. All the mechanicals will be covered up. The studs and insulation, the bare unfinished look of a half-baked shed in the woods, the holes and dirty things. We’re rounding the corner. The end of this project isn’t so far away.

Here’s what our new spaces look like tonight.

Downstairs, in our future kitchen and mudroom.

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Just for fun, a panorama:

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And upstairs, in the future parents’ bedroom and bathroom, and one other bedroom.

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Panorama fun.

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We’ve lived with these views long enough now that I have trouble imagining how it’ll look all drywalled up. By next week, I won’t have to imagine it. I’ll be a lot less grumpy then.

grumpy about modern technology (the TV ain’t broke)

We have a high-def TV that’s really, really old. It’s ancient. it’s at least eight years old, which in modern technological timelines makes it a veritable dinosaur.

Sometimes it acts up and doesn’t like to turn on. You turn it on, and nothing happens. It just sits there with its little red light switched to green, teasing you but refusing to light up. Or tonight’s variation: you turn it on, you see the words “PLEASE WAIT” on the bottom of the screen (which is normal), and then nothing happens (not normal).

Whenever nothing happens, no one knows what to do except to inform me of the crisis.

“Mommy, the TV is broken.”

“Carla, something’s wrong with the TV.”

Expectant stares and long lashes blinking.

My usual solution is to turn the power strip off and on. It does the trick most of the time. I’m apparently the only one who can remember to do this. A person apparently doesn’t learn the turn-it-off-and-back-on trick while obtaining a Ph.D. in economics. Anthony is lucky to have me around to make up for these sorts of educational deficits.

Tonight, the off/on solution didn’t work. Anthony shook his head sadly. “It looks like the TV might really be done this time.”

I thought for a moment. I grabbed the TV and leaned it to the left. I leaned it to the right. I jiggled it this way and that. Then I turned the power strip off and back on.

The TV is fine. We’re watching an episode of Farscape on it right now.

Anthony was a mixture of impressed and bemused. He doesn’t understand how I fixed it.

I explained my thinking. There’s wires and stuff in there. Something must be loose. If I wiggle it this way and that, the loose thing can go back where it belongs.

You ever wonder what those peeps at the “Genius Bar” actually do when they take your advanced technological device into the back room to “fix it”? I think I have a pretty good idea.

I’m a freaking genius.