Put that in your pipe....

So because of the long holiday weekend I was feeling a little more motivated than usual.

Or maybe I had one too many cups of coffee.

Either way on Sunday morning, I found myself sitting at the table, wondering what to do with my free hour or so during Sena's morning nap. Matt was off playing golf. I was looking at the Home Depot ad when I got an idea.

I would fix the leaky kitchen faucet!

By myself.

Yeah, great idea.

I already had the parts, or at least, I thought I did. The faucet had been leaking a slow, annoying drip for the past few months. So a few weeks ago I went to the Home Depot with the faucet manual that I took from my binder. I have two binders of instruction manuals and warranties, etc. One binder is for things permanent to the house. The toilet, faucets, furnace, etc. The other is for things like the lawnmower, the gas grill, the jogging stroller. (Yes, I'm an organized freak!) Things that we will be taking with us if we ever sell this house. But who wants to buy a house with a drippy faucet? That's a red flag to any buyer.

So I tell Matt it needs to get fixed. Duh...

He wants to call a plumber.

I say, "Why? I can fix it. YOU can fix it!"
He stares at me like I just asked him to dismantle an atomic bomb.
So I say, "It's not rocket science."

No, it's worse. Water's involved. Water, pressure, and tiny metal and plastic bits.

So I find the dude in the plumbing aisle at Home Depot. I tell him what's the problem and show him my Delta faucet guide. "I have this model," I tell him.

He smiles a goofy grin and hands me a little set of seats and springs. "You know," he says, somewhat awestruck, "Only women bring in the manuals. The guys just come in, stare at the wall and think they automatically know what to get." He starts laughing.

I tell him I'm old enough to know better. I know that I don't really know. Plus, my dad told me to always bring the part that needs to be replaced or you invariably buy the wrong damn thing and have to make another trip.

He hands me the little box. "Try these first. Usually it's the hot water one that goes first. Usually these will solve the problem."

So I buy them and take them home and they sit in the drawer for a month.

I figured Matt wouldn't fix it. Because I already asked him to do it about 10 times. And they were still in the drawer.

Shitburgers, I think, sitting at the table. I'm gonna fix it! How hard can replacing little rubber rings be?

Somewhere in the distance I hear the plumbing gods laughing. It sounds like a slow, annoying drip....

And then I learned why plumbers drive better cars than I ever will.


First step: Turn off the water.

No prob.

Except I couldn't really get it off. I keep turning the knobs under the sink until one made a hideous squeak and I was suddenly afraid the knob would bust off and start spraying everywhere. Another reason you shouldn't tackle any household jobs on a major holiday. If I did have to call someone, it would probably be double.

I sit and stare at the knob.

I try the faucet. Some water is still coming out. Crap.

Matt gets home then, and I say,"I need you to get the water off."

Matt tightens it a little more but there is still a tiny trickle. I decide to try to forge ahead anyway.

I manage to get the handle off. Then, using an allen wrench, get the rest of the piece off. Water gurgles up.

I take off another plastic piece. Then the final piece. I can look down and see the seat ring and spring. I take them out and look at them. They look okay to me, but what do I know.

I try to put the new pieces in. I try. I can't really do it because water is still coming up and the pressure is popping the rubber ring up. I start cursing.

Matt says, "We could turn off the main water."

I feel like a dumbbutt for not thinking that. "Yeah, okay, do that."

He stares at me again. The dismantle atomic bomb stare.

I feel a bit snarky. "You don't know WHERE it is, do YOU?"

He shrugs. "No."

I resist saying anything mean. "Okay, I'll show you." I go down to the basement and show him. He turns it off.

I replace the ring and rubber seat. I'm sweating now, even though the air conditioner is going. I feel a little light-headed. A little bit crazy. There's crap all over the countertop.

I turn the main line back on and recheck the faucet. The drip is still there.

Except...

Except, now it's worse. Now it's a slow stream.

At this point I'm inventing new swearwords. FUCKADOODLEYHORSESHITFEATHERS! SONOFABITCHSHITBIRDYTURDY!

I go down and turn the water back off. I try to calm down and not have a stroke because I realize I brought this on myself.

I go back upstairs and sit down. Matt makes some eggs and I sit and eat them while I think. Sometimes that's what you have to do. Sit and eat breakfast and think. My blood sugar goes back to normal. I decide to replace the cold water side. "If this doesn't work," I warn him, "I'll have to call a plumber."

He wisely says nothing.

So I change the other side and check everything again. I tighten up everything and then I turn the water back on.

Guess what?

The leak stopped.

I stare in amazement. I just fixed a leaky faucet. By myself. And nobody died and nothing blew up. I feel exactly like Neil Armstrong did when he walked on the moon. Sort of. Maybe even better. Maybe like Neil Armstrong walking on the moon and then discovering a big pirate chest full of gold. And cake.

Plus, it only cost me $4.95. And about two hours of utter disgust, anger, frustration, and deep self-hatred at the world, myself, plumbers, and the physics of water.

So I guess that was worth it.

Tool Time

Because we are getting our house ready to sell, (Yes, really...) we have had to finish up on a few home improvement projects.

And because for the past nine years I have been the instigator for all these projects, I decided I'm tired of it.

So I said as much.

"I think you really want to kill me."
"Huh?"
"Seriously. Just do it."
"What are you talking about."
"You want to move now?"
"I think we should."
"Why didn't we move before the baby showed up?"
"Because we didn't need to then."
"But we do now?"
"I think so."
"Jesus..."

I think about all the work that has to be done. All the boxes to be packed. How much crap we have to sift through. I feel a little sick.

"I think you want to give me a stroke."
"You're funny."

So because our house goes up for sale this week, yesterday we spent the afternoon at Home Depot picking up a few things that we needed. Actually, I let Matt figure out what kind of baseboard molding he needed to get while Sena and I hung out in the tile aisle and I showed her different samples of mosaic glass tiles I thought would look good on the backsplash.

Sena said, "Eeeeeahhhh! Blurraaaaack! Eeeeech!" Which could translate to the following:

Pretty!
Ugly!
Hi!
Feed me!
Why are you asking me, lady? I'm a baby!

That afternoon Matt impressed me by wiring a new light fixture, spackling concrete, and cutting molding with a mitre saw without cutting his fingers off.

"Who are you?" I asked him.
"I'm a man! I'm doing man things!"
"Are you going to start grunting now?"
"Get me a beer, woman!"
"How bout a Fresca?"
"Beer! Men drink beer!"
"You are so hot right now..."

Baby Moo's Nursery

Here are some pictures. For the most part it is done, or I should say, it will do for now. I like how the tree mural turned out; I may add more art work on the walls/closet if I feel the motivation.

I'm not sure what the color scheme is here. Hodgepodge? Is that a scheme? I kept the walls the color I had them before; pale silver blue. I repainted the dresser white and tan. The rocking chair is dark sage green. The crib bedding was a gift from my mom, and the crib is actually the one I slept in as a baby.

We decided to leave the full-sized bed in the room (pushed up against the wall). I imagine for the first few months I will be sleeping in the bed or possibly in the chair, so it made sense to use to leave it in the room even though it makes things a little more crowded. It also provides a good spot for all the stuffed animals. The three framed pictures above the bed are original illustrations from my book. The panda bear has been mine since I was eight years old. And the Raggedy Ann doll is even older. That I got as a present for my first birthday. She looks pretty good for her age!

24/12

This picture was taken about four weeks ago, when my sister was visiting, and in it you can see the difference between being 24 weeks pregnant (me) and 12 weeks pregnant (my sister).







We are standing in front of the arbor that my dad had recently built for me as a birthday present. Or I should say, project no.47 that he has completed on my house since I've moved into it, eight years ago. Thanks, Dad!

Paper Trail...

So I see this letter sitting on the dining table the other day. Usually, I go through the mail and shred and rip and recycle as soon as I pull it out of the mail slot; I have a type of OCD that won't allow me to function if there are sheets and piles of papers lying around; I feel like I'm going to have an anxiety attack. And I grew up in a household with newspapers, post-its, and little slips of paper with notes, recipes, and future articles to read, etc. etc. Every time I go home my mom has "saved" something for me to read and has it sitting on the dresser in my old bedroom. Everything from how to paint kitchen cabinets, how to divide perennials, coupons for cat treats, inexpensive hotels in Paris, to background information and the history of garden gnomes.

My mom would make a great librarian. Or a C.I.A. analyst.

Seriously, if it's out there in the world she will FIND it.

Author Neil Gaiman once said, "You can know anything. It's all there. You just have to find it."

Mr. Gaiman was talking about my mom. Obviously.

The information is always useful but the amount of stuff lying around the house horrifies me. Horrifies me the way normal people are horrified by the thought of being covered with greasy sewer rats. I'll take the rats, but put me in a room with newspapers dating back to the Eisenhower administration and I will go berserk. I feel the same way when I walk past some of my coworkers cubicles: the unorganized files and piles of papers make me want to toss a lit match on their desk while I jump up and down and shriek with delight.

I guess I have a small issue with disorganization. Maybe.

When my parents came to visit last weekend, she brought Matt a little piece of paper from the employment section about a job she thought he would be good at.
It was in La Crosse.

"Um," says Matt.
"La Crosse is nice," my mom tells him.
"Um....yeah," says Matt.

She also had a little piece of the USA today for my brother, Jimmy. It was a story about a black bear that had trapped a park ranger in an outhouse on the Apostle Islands. It turns out that it was one of my brother's co-workers.

So then I read this letter.

It's from the city of Minneapolis. The city inspector came down our alley and deemed our garage to be a disgusting pile of crap; a blight on our fair city, and we should be thoroughly ashamed and disgraced, or something to that effect.

It said we have to take care of the peeling paint on our garage. I had planned on doing that; after I noticed this spring that large sections of paint had blistered and peeled. The funny thing is that our garage is not nearly the worst one on the block. But then, it isn't the best either. I hadn't been looking forward to scraping and sanding and priming and painting, but knew it was going to have to be done sooner or later. Turns out it's sooner.

"Did you see this?" I ask Matt.
"Yeah."
"I knew we'd have to do this."
"What, do we have to scrap it all off?"
"Just the bad parts. I don't think the last owners primed it. That's why it's peeling off again."
"Sucks."
"Well, we better do it right away, even though we have until next June."
"What if we don't?"
"Then they'll execute us."
"Huh?"
"Or fine us $100."

Foiled again!

I was supposed to go skydiving yesterday. Originally, I had planned on the previous weekend but Matt had a golf tournament and wanted to come with me. So I rescheduled. Of course it rained today. Apparently, the universe does not want me to do this, but I rescheduled again, near the end of October. Maybe that day there will be a snowstorm. If so, then I will take the hint.

At first Matt wasn't sure if he didn't want to do it too, but the fact that he hemmed and hawed suggests he wasn't up for it. Usually, when you bring up skydiving to a person they will have a distinct visceral reaction to the idea. It is either:

A. Awesome! I want to do it!

Or

B. No way! Did you fall and hit your head, or are you just a natural idiot?

The actual conversation went something like this:

Matt: Ummm... I don't know. Sounds scary! But I might like it.

Mindy: Everyone says they liked it. Says it's incredible.

Matt: Yeah, I might regret it if I don't do it.

Mindy: You might. But you don't have to go.

Matt: I'm afraid. Are you strapped to another guy?

Mindy: Yeah, it's tandem.

Matt: What if I poop my pants?

Mindy: Well, you can't hide it. The other guy will know.

Matt: But with the wind speed...maybe he won't smell it.

Mindy: I don't know. He'll definitely feel it. He might cut you loose on purpose.

Matt: Well, I better not try it then.

So instead of pictures and video of skydiving, I will post pictures of our floor refinishing. Carl from Above and Beyond Hardwood Floors did a great job fixing the hole and weaving in new oak boards and sanding and sealing. You can't even tell there was a hole. I went away to work and came home and it was done. It was like someone waved a magic wand and I didn't have to do anything. The only drawback was that these magicians only take cash or personal check. Apparently VISA is not everywhere you want to be.

BEFORE - I put a board in the hole so the cats would stop laying in it.



AFTER

I don't do plumbing or electrical

Well now that the lights and fan are up I guess it's time to tackle the hole in the wood floor. I'm wondering what the quotes are going to be. I'm getting to the point where I'm sick of tackling projects myself (or asking my Dad to do them) and feel it's a better use of my time to hire a professional and just get it done.

The problem with home improvements is that they snowball. If I have someone fix the wood floor then I'll want them to resurface the wood floor in the bedroom, add wood in the kitchen and hallway, but then I want to widen the doorway to the kitchen (shouldn't I do that before I have new floors put in?) Should I bother with the kitchen if I plan on remodeling it completely at a later date? You can see where this is going... when do you stop trying to make small fixes before you say, "Shoot! Let's gut the whole thing and start from scratch."

And then you wonder if it's worth it and how long you're going to live in your "starter" house.

Probably till we die.

Whenever I think of attempting another home improvement and exactly why I'm afraid to do plumbing and electrical work, I remember this.

Things fall apart

The pendant light is up. It is enormous. The diameter is 34 inches, which I misread. I thought it said 24 inches. I opened the box and said, "Oh my god!" I had to trim the cord and raise it up; considering the diameter of the light is the same as the diameter of our dining table. I had a problem doing it myself; these things are never one person jobs. Matt's friend Adam helped me finish it. Thanks, Adam.

So now it is up; it looks ginormous, but still cool.

This morning the electrician, Tom, showed up.

We walk into the spare bedroom and he looks at the ceiling fan.

"Ah, this isn't a flush mount?"
"Um, No. Why?"
"Well, I don't know about installing it over the bed."
"Will it hang down too much?"
"Well, there's a down rod. Doesn't look like I can convert it."

I stare at the ceiling. I don't know what to do. I bought it 3 months ago and probably can't take it back. I sigh.
"What would you do?"

"Well, this is on the low side. I say never to have it hang less than 7'2".
"Okay."
"You know, if you have kids. They like to jump on the bed. That's my rule."
I wonder what kind of dumb kids jump on a bed while a ceiling fan is whirling above them. Then I remember that my brother would play this game with a pair of balled up socks or a soft ball. We'd lay on the floor and throw it up into the ceiling fan and see if it would hit and where it would get flung.
"Well," I say, "no one really uses this room."
Since the clock is ticking I have him install it. He has it done inside an hour.
"So the outlet box is strong enough for the fan?" I ask. This is what I was concerned about. I have this image of the fan coming loose from the ceiling while I'm sleeping. It is spinning and flies loose and of course, decapitates whoever is sleeping in the bed below. I'm morbid.
"Oh yeah," he says. "I did a chin-up on the outlet box."
"A chin-up?"
"Yeah, that sucker ain't coming down."

The one nice thing about an old house is they're rock solid.

Then I ask him about installing a garbage disposal. We go down to the basement and look at the circuit breaker. I learn it is 100 amp panel. He is saying things that I don't really understand. I am so dumb I can't even think of what question to ask. He says the job would probably be about $250 to install a line for the disposal and 1 for a dishwasher. He says it would probably take 2 hours. He says I have the old Bryant system. And stuff about VF cables; I don't know. I have no idea what he's talking about but for some reason I feel that he is truthful. Even though I don't know what he is talking about, I know that he knows what he is talking about. He is very specific and says specific things. He doesn't speak in platitudes. I think it is a reasonable price.

Now I just have to work on Matt.

An evening with George

In the 7 years since we've owned our house we've done the following home projects.

New windows
New carpeting in basement
Removed old carpeting upstairs
Sanded and sealed wood floors
Ripped out hideous linoleum floor in kitchen
Tried to put in laminate flooring
Floor too crooked for laminate
Had my dad spend 300 hours trying to level the floor
Went through several sheets of plywood and a bag of Quikcrete
Still not level enough for laminate floors
Installed less hideous vinyl tiles in kitchen instead
Ripped down hideous wallpaper
Painted walls
Painted walls again
Painted and painted and painted and painted
Put up ceiling fan
Prayed fan wouldn't fall out of ceiling
Installed several different light fixtures
Blew out a fuse
Gave thanks to Jesus that I didn't electrocute myself
Ripped down chain link fence
Planted a hedge
Planted tree
Planted hundreds of flowers and bushes myself and husband says, "MY yard looks nice."
Completely remodeled the bathroom, but this was done by professionals.

I'm sure I'm forgetting a few things, but as it is now I have a new ceiling fan to install and 2 more interior doors to put up (thanks, Dad, for figuring out how to make shims out of duct tape). You'd think installing doors would be easy, but my house is almost 60 years old and nothing is straight.

Now we also have a hole in the floor where an old cabinet used to be. It had been installed when the house was built and put in about 3 feet from the front door. Whoever thought this was a good idea, I don't know. There's no accounting for taste. So last night I made Matt rip it down. He's not much for building or construction or feats of engineering, but HE CAN DEMOLISH STUFF. I think deep down he likes it. ME HULK! ME SMASH!

So now we have to fix the hole in the floor.

Because I'm obsessed with home improvements I have a lot of dreams about it, but the one I had last night is the best so far.

In my dream I'm trying to put together an IKEA shelf. If you've bought stuff at IKEA you know the directions only have pictures, no words. This is actually really a good idea and makes sense, but in my dream I could NOT figure out what the little drawings meant, they looked like Egyptian pictographs.

Suddenly there is a knock at the door.

I open it and see George Clooney standing there. He is holding a paper bag like one of those drunks standing on the corner of the liquor store.

"Hi, George."
"I heard you have some IKEA shelves you need fixing."
"Did IKEA send you?"
"I brought wine," he says and shows me the bottle.

It's a nice Brunello di Montelcino. I let him in.
For some reason the wine is a twist off, so I open it and start drinking straight from the bottle. "George, these directions make no damn sense."

"Where's your Allen wrench?"
"Why do I need that?"
He sighs, "IKEA furniture always needs an Allen wrench."
"Oh." I sit on the floor with the bottle and watch him sort out the different sized bolts and screws. He is doing a really good job so I offer him some of the wine. He takes a swig. "Yup, that's the good stuff."
"Yeah it is." Then I feel a little bolder. "Hey, when you're done with that, we could play Twister."
"That sounds fun."
"Yeah it does."

Suddenly the wine I'm drinking smells suspiciously like cat food. I open my eyes and see my cat Junebug with her face two inches from mine and staring intently. She does this every morning because she's afraid if she doesn't wake me up I will forget to feed her breakfast. I look at the clock and see I still have ten minutes before my alarm goes off.

I hate Tuesdays.