The Great Remodel of 2011, Before and After

First, some history. My parents bought the old farmhouse in which I grew up at an auction for less than $30,000. Guess what happens when you buy an old farmhouse for less than $30,000 in the mid-eighties?

You live with perpetual, inconvenient renovations!

J bought the house we now inhabit back in the late nineties for $40,000. It was built in 1885 and stood vacant for 13 years before he bought it.

Guess what happens when you buy an ancient, 13 years-vacant farmhouse that used to be a rental unit for $40,000?

You live with perpetual, inconvenient renovations!

Now don’t get me wrong. I no longer mind the DIY. I’m learning a lot, and we’re slowly making our house exactly the way we want it. Also, two words: sweat equity. (Mostly sweat--have you ever hand-scraped Nixon-era carpet pad some genius glued and stapled to the pine floor boards below? In five rooms? It was so old it crumbled into yellow, rubbery dust. Masks were worn. Sneezing commenced. Knuckles and knees were bruised. Curses lingered in the air.)

My father-in law, hard at work...standing where a shed used to be attached to the house. My brother-in-law looks thrilled to be standing where our new driveway will be poured.

View of the same back door last summer. We painted it purple, just for kicks.

Since we bought the house, we’ve sunk an additional $70,000 into it. First, we started outside, with a new roof, new siding, new porches, new driveway, new exterior doors and windows, landscaping, and a brand-spanking new garage. With a magic door that opens at the push of a button!!!

Hey, I have a great idea! Let's side the house in February!

A cute 'lil birch now grows where two hulking Box Elder beasts used to.

Then we moved indoors, installing a tankless water heater, energy efficient furnace, beadboard wainscoting in the kitchen, new appliances, and *drum roll please*…our fall project: a complete remodel of the entire second story of our house. (We recently got a new computer and I lost most of my before photos in the transfer, but you’ll get the gist.)

This is an actual, unadulterated photo of our “daily-use” bathroom prior to the remodel (minus the mirror). I had to switch to waterproof mascara because anytime I stood in front of the mirror to apply make-up, I wept copiously.

Again, the toilet, which is only code-compliant on the planet “Crap Cobbled Together by Someone With Hand, Brain, and Eye Injuries.” Here were the things that crossed my mind the very first time I laid eyes on this engineering marvel: “There’s a toilet in the wall. Spiders. Gross. Disgusting. Bugs. Ewww. Those lazy bastards. There’s a toilet in the wall.”

In the days before The Great Remodel, there was a Great Purge. In the Purge, I hauled almost every piece of our old furniture to the curb. Countless trips to Goodwill and electronics recycling drives were made. It was time. Most of that stuff had moved from house to house to house with me since college. I finally got rid of the twin bed I’d had since I was three.

I was ruthless in my culling. I became a hoarder’s worst nightmare. I even tried to convince J to throw away an oil painting done by his grandmother, because a) it is buttass-ugly; b) it’s not done by my grandma; and, c) I have a heart made of obsidian and/or am part robot. I let him keep it in the garage, partly to assuage my guilt that I threw away other personal belongings of his when he wasn’t looking.

This looks safe, doesn't it?

I am standing where our new walk-in closet will be. I can't even believe I get to type that. The bathroom walls are completely gone, yet the old, yellow-ochre, 70s phone booth shower stall remains. New doorways and walls to come ...

You have to add a few charming yet unnecessary touches. I'm ashamed to tell you what this switch plate cost. So I'm not going to.

Everything in this picture is new except the windowpanes. Also, I've developed a fondness for wrought-iron.

I love this hallway now; it used to be a big landing with tons of wasted space. I wish I had a before photo, so you could see how ridiculous the layout was.

The "new" spare bedroom, which is empty from The Great Purge. That door is brand-spanking new. That space used to be a closet. I am standing almost where the old entrance was; just three months ago, your only way in or out of this bedroom was through the adjacent walk-through bathroom. So if someone was dropping a deuce and you really wanted to get downstairs, you just had to wait awhile, Nelly. You were trapped.

This might be my favorite room. Once a small, grubby bedroom with peeling walls and a bare, dangling lightbulb that screamed "CRACK DEN!", this is now my walk-in closet / dressing room / ironing and folding station. I can iron a shirt, put on some slacks, and lie down to do celebratory floor-angels on the fluffy new carpet if I want. See that post-demo photo above featuring the shovel? I'm standing in the same spot.

During the demo, we found a decorative old metal grate that we'll clean, repaint, and install over the cold air return at the base of the linen closet; until then, Daisy will continue to sniff the hole cautiously and growl at it in warning so it doesn't suck her down into the furnace.

Oh Pottery Barn, I finally know yee.* (* I spelled “ye” with an extra “e,” because otherwise it would sound like, “yeh,” and I want to be clear. I mean “YEE.”)

This glass door is so new it still smells like silicone caulk and solvents. Still, I'm trying not to lick it whenever I walk by.

I no longer cry when I put my makeup on here. I sing. Which is really hard when you're applying lipstick. See that custom linen closet? It's a pass-through; I can reach through and wave to J in the bedroom, while he's shelving freshly folded towels on the other side. Right, J?

Remember when you were a kid and your Dad said that one friend of yours had a face like a bag full of doorknobs? I know! Me neither! But look—now I have an actual bag full of doorknobs!!! This is one of our last tasks; first we have to finish painting the doors.

J and I leveled the floor and laid this grout-free Duraceramic tile ourselves, which was an adventure. (Helpful tip: Leveling compound is NOT supposed to be lumpy when you pour it on the floor.)

No more toilet in the wall! Trust me when I tell you I now hear a chorus of angels singing Hallelujah every time I sit down.

~~~~~~~~~

So there you have it. We'll be turning our attention to the living room, downstairs bath, and kitchen this summer.

Or next. The adventure continues.

Looking for Ms. Vadino

It's my turn in the rotation at CBGB....I mean GBCB. Less punk, more writing. Stop by and tell me about your favorite elusive author!

I Gave Birth to This Blog (For You)

Wouldn't that be a great song title?

Anyway, hi! Welcome back to the place I infrequent. How were your holidays?

My Christmas was chock-full of kiddos, as Christmases are wont to be. So naturally, conversation during one get-together eventually touched on the fact that I remain securely in the “Godmother, I love you THIS much!” card section at Hallmark. I got a bit of ribbing about the barren state of things, tick-tock and such, though I can’t imagine this type of teasing lasting many more years. (Though science continues to advance...Onward, science!)

At one point, I good-naturedly countered with, “With my luck, our kid would totally be an asshole!” And the conversation only devolved from there.

I am closer to 40 than 35, which means there is a 96% chance I will hear this from my doctor should Things Get Real: “If your ovaries have not yet crumbled to dust and actually Leggo a viable Eggo, you are a higher risk than a credit default swap circa 2005 … also, are you aware that if you do conceive, your preggo-pendi will likely become a perma-pendi?”*

I can imagine myself examining the ultrasound results with my doctor. “Ah,” she’d say, “See that? You can already see the laryngeal birth defect forming …”

“What does that mean?” I’d say, sitting up, fighting panic.

“Just that your child will never be able to form the words ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘please,’ or ‘thank you.’

It also means he’ll probably try to set the dog on fire, steal money from his grandparents, deface church property, and there will be rashes. On a weekly basis.”

And I’d anxiously pull up my elastic-waistband pants and leave, huffing to J on the way to the car: “That’s the last time we get an ultra-sound from someone in the WalMart parking lot!”

*”Pendi” is my aunt and uncle’s shorthand for “pedunculus," defined by the Urban Dictionary as follows: “a frontbutt on women (and some men), the pedunculus is the last fatty roll before the vagina.” You're welcome.

~~~~~

In totally unrelated news, I am mulling some changes to this blog, because if I'm totally sick of looking at the layout, I can only imagine the guttural revulsion you're feeling by now. So, here are some new names I'm considering for the site:

1) Tight slacks.

2) I wanted to call this “Two Dinks and a Dog,” but some non-posting asshole already bought that domain. (Yes, the whole sentence. Maybe I'd use underscores for spaces.)

3) That’s not chili!

And now that my most entertaining neighbor is dead, what should the focus of the blog be? Lifestyle, writing, food, gardening, mommy blogger with an invisible child named Sebastian, who is allergic to soy and enjoys crafting with felt? Maybe a weekly interview with J while he reacts to something strange I make for dinner ("Yes. There are definitely subtle notes of construction adhesive at work here, though the overall mouth-feel is playful, strangely evocative of crushed tapioca"). Maybe I could give my dog a monthly guest slot, though every blog she posts would just look like this: "Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of butt scooting across carpet--bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of retching--bark-bark!!!!" So that would get old after awhile.

Lately I have been in a state of EXTREME anxiety concerning a project at work, so maybe I could document my meltdown? I have a feeling it could be spectacular! Would I be fired if I put this footnote in my grant proposal: "As you can clearly see, the client did NOT trust my professional opinion or provide timely, detailed information. Therefore, instead of a well-developed proposal that could result in meaningful change in our community, you are being presented with a charcoal rendering of Ed Helms' profile, a strangers' grocery list that I found in a parking lot, and a selection of my Best Blogs from 2006. Enjoy!"

Here's what I'm thinking: Meltdown Monday, Testy Teste Tuesday, Wow-What-a-Weave! Wednesday, Thin-Skinned Thursday, and Found in the Fridge Friday.

Or we could stick with the current sporadic, unpredictable, rickety-ass schedule. Which is kind of fun, because who doesn't like surprises?

Patience, Old Grasshopper

Last night I made the mistake of stopping at Target on my way home from work, when every other resident of my community got the same idea at the exact same time. I only ended up with a handful of things in my cart, because the store was out of several key items on my list. This Christmas, if anyone asks you during an after-dinner trivia game, “Which major U.S. retailer was completely out of Rolos three days before the second-largest candytastic U.S. holiday?” you can now answer with confidence.

The lines to check-out were endless, streaming into jewelry and inappropriate tween wear. I wove my cart through the herd and settled into Lane 8, which only had three shoppers in front of me. However, Lane 6 only had one shopper! And she was already checking out! Oh, joyful, speedy day!

Quickly, I steered my cart into Lane 6. Which was when time waded into a pit of molasses and started to sink. After five or ten minutes of mouth-counting, the clerk finished sorting the ninety dollar bills the woman before me had laid on the counter. And then the shopper asked the clerk: “Do you have a pen?”

Holy, sweet, innocent baby Jesus, do you have a mother^&#@ing pen?!?! That’s right neighbors, Speedy Gonzalez was paying for a portion of her purchase with a check! A check! Like they used all the time back in 1982! And she was penless, despite having a purse the size of a Buick on her shoulder.

“Do you want to apply for a Target credit card to save 5%?”

“No, but why don’t you slowly read me the fine print anyway?”

“Sure!” After the clerk finished reading, she pulled out a massive abacus to complete the transaction, while the shopper fished through her purse for some glass beads and decorative feathers with which to finish paying for her items.

“Do you need to see my driver’s license?”

“No, as long as your license number is on the check.”

“I want to show it to you anyway, but it’s expired.”

“Oh, well why don’t you run down to the DMV to renew it, come back, and finish paying for your things? I can wait!”

They were completely oblivious to the orgy of frustration and impatience seething within me. The only clue was the twitching of my left eyelid; the sales associate in Lane 10 noticed, however, and started winking back at me. I wanted to throttle both of them, or gently ask if a swift foot to the taint might help speed the whole process along. I could suddenly see the merits of a concealed carry permit. But I took a deep breath, pulled my phone from my purse, checked the time, and settled for sighing heavily.

In Lane 8 next to me, twelve shoppers who'd arrived at the store after I’d switched check-out lanes had already paid for their purchases, and returned home. Several of them had already eaten spaghetti for dinner and were now cuddled on the couch with loved ones, watching the X-Factor finals.

Eventually, I paid for my own items, and eventually, I got home, made dinner, and watched a nature show on PBS because I am old.

Still later, the universe decided to teach me a few lessons about patience when I found myself upstairs in my painting clothes at ten p.m., numbly applying second coats of white paint to window and door trim, my taskmaster cracking a bull whip over my shoulder and shouting things like, “You’ve got a drip! Catch it, catch it!” and “Sand with the grain! With the grain, I say!!!”*

Patience. It’s what I really want for Christmas.

*J really isn't this bad, though I have been banned from doing any touch-up painting on surfaces at eye-level. My evil plan to get out of tedious detail-work by pretending to do things poorly is working…

Half-Assery Abounds

We are at the point in our DIY adventure where it feels like we'll never see the finish line...who knew five rooms could have so much trim to prime, sand, putty, paint, and re-paint? The tedium is exhausting, and I'm battling a strong urge to do a totally half-assed job. My wrists have told me in no uncertain terms that they are not in their twenties any longer. Unfortunately, J has suddenly become more detail-oriented than a Swiss watch maker, re-puttying nail holes I filled yesterday, insisting on sanding and re-painting when I think it's just fine.

We also realized that we have no stairwell clearance for a new queen-sized mattress, so we had to break down and order a spendy Sleep-Number bed, sight-unseen. My heart still hasn't recovered from that unexpected additional expense. Also, we've never even tried one out! We just bought the mattress, one easy online click, because we knew we'd be able to get it up our steps. Just another one of the many joys of living in a 125-year old house built when people and their dreams were much, much shorter.

I console myself with the knowledge that in three weeks, we'll be able to stop sleeping in the living room, stop living like hoarders, and move back upstairs to sleep on a REAL (Sleep-Number) bed again.

Things I've learned during this remodeling project:

• If your floor leveling compound is lumpy when you pour it on the floor, you did something wrong. Perhaps God is angry at you.
• If I ever hear Bob Seger, Foreigner, or Warren Zevon again, it'll be too soon.
• We should have gotten a Menards "Big card" YEARS ago.
• Open a few windows when you're priming walls and ceilings, unless you don't really want the brain cells dedicated to math and/or critical thinking.
• When your vanity counter top for some reason fails to overhang the vanity cabinet, it looks like shit. Get your husband to glue some kind of jerry-rigged pieces of plastic he found at work to the backsplash. Nobody will know.
  
• There are always more cracked stair treads beneath the old carpeting than the one you are aware of.
• Don't paint yourself into a corner, get up to date on your Tetanus shots, and buy a humane bark collar for your dog. Your contractors will thank you.
  

At the Girlfriends' Book Club...

I'm blogging today at the Girlfriends' Book Club about one of my stranger, more unsettling childhood memories and the books I loved way back when...

Could it be....Seitan?

Just checking in ... we are still up to our eyeballs in home renovations, although at least we are at the painting stage. All ceilings and three rooms down--2 more to go. Lighting, flooring, trim, and dear-God-can-we-really-stop-sleeping-on-the-futon-soon?

Tonight J's parents stopped by on their way through town for a quick visit, and I fed them dinner. I stuck to the game plan from my weekly menu: oven-roasted acorn squash with pesto pasta and sun-dried tomatoes, peas, and seitan. It's pronounced "Say-TAHN," but you can call it "Satan," like my mother-in-law did, because then you'll know whom* to blame when the gas kicks in later.

Yeah, I forgot about that part--I formally apologize to my in-laws for subjecting them to my weird meal AND the deleterious side effects. Some daughter-in-law I am!

In case you were wondering, seitan is vital wheat gluten mixed with broth and boiled for an hour--it sounds gross, and it kind of is (unless you grill it and season it and toss it with something else). A chicken analogue, of sorts. Best chopped up and tossed in a pot pie or soup, actually. Neither of which I did, resulting in a sub-par Meatless Monday.

Okay, I've got more painting to do, so I'm off. I can't wait to post the full before- and after- blog, with photos.

*Does it sound pretentious to say "whom" here? Is it even warranted?