They're BAAAAACK

Like the swallows to Capistrano, our swallows have returned to our chimney. Actually, I found out they're swifts, not swallows. A subtle difference probably only noticed by swallows, swifts, and REALLY observant bird watchers. This is a chimney swift:

And this is a swallow:

(Don't those swallows look a little pissed about being mistaken for swifts?!)
So, I was supposed to call the chimney sweep last year after the swallows left their nest and headed on their migratory route to Peru. But, you know what often slips your mind in the day to day chaos of life?
Calling the chimney sweep.
To be fair, if I were, say Mary Poppins, or a Dickensian waif, or maybe even some kind of post-industrial revolution activist, calling the chimney sweep would have been MUCH higher on the list. But when the birds aren't ACTUALLY in the chimney chirping their heads off, it's easy to forget that they'll return. Last week, the mother bird, who apparently is a very clumsy nest builder, (appropriately, she found OUR house) fell down the chimney three times. Yes. Three times. Three times, my kids and/or husband came to me and said, "there's a bird in the house. Go get it."

By the time I get to the bird, it has 1) fallen down a chimney 2) landed in a foreign place where windows masquerade as exits 3) been stared at by small, noisy people and 4) been sniffed by a dog, which probably in bird instinct seems a lot being inspected for dinner. (Fortunately, Cat has not been in the house for these incidents.) The little bird is shaking and when I pick it up, its little heart is on the brink of exploding. I take it outside (check for Cat) and wait for the little critter to emotionally regroup and fly off.
When drunk mama bird finally gets her nest built, she'll lay eggs and then we'll have squawking babies in the chimney. They are so loud, it's like having a chorus of pissed off squeak toys in your chimney. At dusk and dawn when mama feeds them, they flutter and compete for her food. It strongly resembles the chaos on our side of the chimney with yelling and competition for attention.

Which prompts me to hope WE don't disturb the birdies: can't you just see mama bird rolling her eyes? "JESUS, people. I just got these noisy whelps down for a nap and you're down there in the middle of the day raising all kinds of hell. Help a mama out and shut it!" So, when mama fell down the chimney for the final time, I called the chimney sweep. Who is coming today. I'll probably be disappointed when it's a two-toother from the country instead of Dick Van Dyke, but whatevs. BUT here's the real problem. While "researching" for this blog, I came across this:

Chimney Swifts are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1916. Nests, eggs and birds cannot be removed from chimneys. However, if you see them around your chimney, be sure to close the damper to prevent them from entering your house.Chimney Swifts are fascinating and extremely beneficial birds, even though their sounds are not music to everyone's ears. Two parents and their noisy young will consume more than 12,000 flying insect pests every day. Unfortunately their numbers are in decline due to loss of habitat-first large hollow trees, and now open and large masonry chimneys.

I suspect that the Alabamian two toother is probably pretty soft on the enforcement of the 1916 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, but this leaves me with a bit of a moral dilemma, no?
The moral dilemma has an element of karma thrown in there, too: if I evict drunk mama and her family, will I be attacked by 12,000 more mosquitoes every time I go out to the pool? But, crap. The guy is probably on his way! What to do?! What to do?!? Do I sit and listen to screaming birds for the entire rest of the summer? Do I oust a threatened and beneficial migratory bird species? ACK! I can't take the pressure. I think I should just close the flue and hope for the best. I'm setting up a poll. Vote on the birds' fate. This will have the ancillary benefit of seeing just HOW many readers I've lost since my hiatus.

I can't believe it, but sometimes shopping is NOT fun

You may remember that about this time last year, I was in search of new toilets. At the time, I was shocked and awed by the selection...tall, short, oval round, water saving, rocket powered--many, many options. That was one of life's micro-crises.

Recently, my dishwasher has decided to stop doing dishes. Which would be fine if it had other household responsibilities. I mean, I'd be happy to pick up the slack if the dishwasher still planned to vacuum and cook dinner. But, alas, dish washing is this meager appliance's only responsibility, and it is failing.

Not that I'm sad, mind you.

This is not a loyal appliance that has served me well for an entire appliance-lifetime. Nooooo. This is one that came with the house, and already had a rusted out tine in the upper basket before we even got here. Also, this particular model has the silverware basket in the door, which is annoying a) because you have to slide in both top baskets to get at it and b) the latch doesn't stay caught and all the silverware slides into the bottom. Also, after years of heating and cooling the plastic covers on the buttons in the front are peeling away. Also, it's all stained and rusted inside. Also, did I mention: IT DOESN'T CLEAN THE DISHES!!!

So, onto the computer I go: ratings, features, brands, cost, installation, size....sigh. It's all so much.

I was able to determine 2 things straight off: quietness is of premium importance and quietness costs. A noisy dishwasher, though I'm sure it cleans well enough, was like half the cost of a quiet one.

Behind noise level, efficacy. Behind that, ease of use. Behind that, energy efficiency. Behind that, appearance. The problem is, there's no quantifiable measure of efficacy (until you use it, of course). So, all I can say is product A has x number of jets and y number of cycles. But, honestly, who has ever used multiple cycles on their dishwasher? 98% of the time, we run "normal." So, cycles isn't really a measure of anything except the number of buttons on the front.

Energy efficiency is quantifiable, except for one thing: Bosch, which is a premium brand boasts stupendous, if not unbelievable, energy efficiency. Then I find out that it has no heating element. It doesn't heat-dry the dishes. Well, that explains how it uses crazy less energy. Also, water consumption isn't clearly quantified, either. And, for my dollar that matters more than how much energy I'm using.

Then there's appearance. Currently, my appliances are all white and matched. BUT. The fridge's handles are yellowing with age. I don't think the white is ageing well. BUT, I don't want to clean fingerprints off a stainless steel appliance for the rest of my life, either. I can't commit to a black dishwasher, because it will stick out like a sore thumb. I know, the problems of the bourgeoisie. So, I'm standing in the middle of Sears completely baffled about the possibility of an interracial appliance family.

M weighs in: "I refuse to pay more to have the buttons hidden away to look pretty." BUT you HAVE to tell me what color you want."

Me, fast, breathless, confused: "I don't like the white one, and if I get the white one, then I'll have to get white other appliances as they fail, too. And if I get a black dishwasher, then it's going to not match until something else breaks, and that's going to make me nuts. Plus, I'll be committed to black appliances in the future and maybe I won't want black. BUT if I get stainless, I'm going to spend the rest of this dishwasher's life cleaning up fingerprints and I REALLY don't want to do that. If I get the stainless dishwasher, then I could go ahead and get a black or non-marking stainless fridge down the line, I guess. But I hate to spend $100 on stainless just to make things match. OH MY GOD, I don't know what to do."
M: "Whatever you decide, I'm happy to buy the stainless now, but the words, 'But they don't MATCH' better not cross your lips for the entire lifetime of your remaining appliances."
Me: "But a new fridge is so SHINY."
M: "DISHWASHER. WE ARE HERE FOR DISHWASHER."
Me: "But they're not going to MA--. Stainless."

So, we were able to narrow down to 3 options. In the end, I sat in the furniture section, peering at my iPhone, poring over reviews and comparisons until M had enough. With conviction, he rose, strode over to the counter and bought one.

Leaving me a lifetime to second guess.

Catharsis by force

I am a horrible thrower-outer. I keep random crap and lots of it. In fact, when we moved from Missouri, we had an ENTIRE moving van all to ourselves. Over 450 boxes. Of crap! Crap! CRAP!
I am in a cathartic mood, and have been going through cupboards and closets in a vast purging of stuff. I'm not very good at it, though. A stuffed animal somebody bought for E when he was born, but that he never grew attached to? Out! But it's so cute. And it was only our third gift. From people who vaguely knew our parents. Awww. Let's keep it.
Shoes two inches too short? Look how cute they are! So itty bitty! We can't give away shoes that cute!
A 100 piece puzzle with only 99 pieces? But the challenge lies in figuring out which piece is missing! Can you guess before you assemble?

Despite my shortcomings, I try, which is what's important. I got the kids' closets to the point where I can see actual floor. I have two bags of clothing to give away. Two bags of stuffed animals for the fire department. A whole heap of trash. When I go in the bedroom to kiss the kids goodnight, I turn on the closet light so they won't be in the dark. Now that the closets are all clean, I stick my head in there and bask in the order. It feels good.

One thing I am not good at, and as a result, am not in charge of, is paper. The amount of paper that comes in to run a household is remarkable....bills, statements, insurance paperwork, health care paperwork, animal care, home improvement, warranties, guarantees, receipts, tax returns...the list goes on and on.

M has undertaken the paperwork heap. He processes it, sorts it, and organizes it in three ring binders. All very efficient. All so NOT my thing. Very diligently. And I'm not complaining, because I couldn't do it myself. BUT. We have three ring binders from 1999. We have animal care receipts from the dog who is NO LONGER ALIVE. We have utility receipts from houses we no longer own.

Now, don't get me wrong. In a pinch, M has come up with some obscure warranty, receipt or paperwork which has bailed us out of a jam. On the other hand, we have enough paper to provide a high fiber diet to an army of cockroaches up in the attic. It's a fine line. With clothes, or stuffed animals, or toys, it's really hard to mess up when throwing out stuff. In a WORST case scenario, I throw out a pair of pants that seems hopelessly out of fashion, only to to see it reemerge on the scene a half decade later. So, I buy the updated version. But, when I go on a paper shredding binge, I invariably shred something of national security and we're lost. The validity of a purchase agreement is nullified, and we have to pay $10 million to get the floors repaired. Or whatever.

So I don't get involved in the paperwork. I don't try to pitch it or save it or anything. I just leave it. But I want anyone to know that if the attic collapses under the weight of three ring binders full of utility bills from Toronto, that I wasn't in charge of that. Moving boxes 375 to 400 were NOT my doing.

In the end, I am recruiting good thrower outers. I need help getting rid of crap. I don't want to end up like the hoarders on TV, navigating my house through towering heaps of junk. If you want to come help me, the big jobs left are my closet, (Ms and my halves) and the kitchen. I need a ruthless cutter. I need a harsh eye to say that indeed, those skinny jeans are never going to fit.

Bring trash bags, bring boxes. Come armed. I will fight you for those comfy sweats I've had since college. But, come soon. I wanna get this done. Mostly. Sorta.

Has the tide turned? I'll eat to that!

So, it's possible, maybe. That summer may not be out of control just yet. The kids have hit their stride in a nice, easy schedule. They've been punished strictly for the last couple of days, so maybe I've laid some nice groundwork about fighting, kicking, hitting, mangling, and otherwise harassing one another and me. I'm giving them lots of fun time on the TV, Wii, and playing together.

Everything's coming up Julie.

IN FACT, yesterday, M came with us to look at a kitchen table...and we found one. It's not the dream kitchen table, but that seemed unobtainable.

See, I found the dream table in a catalog:

http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=14228&f=28562

It's gorgeous. I LOVE it. I called Crate and Barrel to see about delivery and to ask a couple of questions.

The woman who answered the phone was wonderful, and I am eternally grateful for her candor. She said that she had the coordinating credenza and loved it, and thought it was so natural, so zen, so clean looking.

I'm thinking, "yup. Zen and clean, that's what I'm going for!"

She goes on about natural oils, sustainable teak, blah blah....and then, then she says something that makes my ears perk up: "Did you read about the cleaning and caring for this table?"

Wait. Hold it right there. There's a cleaning and caring section? For a table?

There's an audible hiss, the sound of my heart's fantasy deflating.

I explain that I had not, in fact, seen that section, and in fact, have 2 kids. Then, dreading the answer--"is this going to be at odds with my love for zen and clean lines?"

"Ohhh. With two kids, I would reconsider buying this table."

The saleslady is talking me out of a sale? This has gotta be bad.

Just like in the cartoons, the little cloud of my dream with the zen table goes poof.

"Hmmm? Why?"

"Well, because this is a natural, unsealed wood, it is going to absorb oil. So, for example, if you set a pizza box down on the table, and it has a greasy bottom, then the table's going to soak that up. To clean it, you will have to sprinkle talc or baking soda on the grease, let it stay overnight, and then give it a light sand the next day."

"A light sand?"

"Yes, a fine grit sandpaper will remove the outermost layer of the grease stain."

"..from a pizza box."

"Well, anything with oil really. Salad dressing, cheese, anything fried."

"So, what you're telling me, is if by chance, a chicken nugget, or a french fry were to accidentally fall off a plate and alight upon the table or the bench, a grease stain will form and be impossible to remove without an overnight cleaning process that involves a trip to Lowe's?"
"Yes. See? It's not really a table for families."

"So, let me see. By the end of the second week of ownership, I will have four chairs sitting around a heap of sawdust and sanding residue. My table will be sanded away. And yet, the catalog suggests years of use?"

"Not really for families."

No. Not really. Or for people with thumbs. Or people with homework, crafts, school projects. Or for people who eat food, except for raw vegetables and salads without dips or dressings. Or people with skin, whose natural oils MAY leave fingerprints on the table.

"In fact, the credenza that I use in my home office is deeply worn and stained where my hands touch it every day. I like the worn look, but that may not be what you're going for."

What the hell happened to zen and clean? Now we're looking at worn and stained?!

Needless to say, the zen kitchen table porn turned out much like all porn when viewed in high-def: kinda blemished, overly made-up, and disappointing. So, after the remarkably candid conversation with the Crate and Barrel woman a few weeks ago, I gave up.

Until two days ago at the fountains on the other side of the bay. I went with friend MT to look for a desk chair for her new home office area. We walked in, and lo, there was a table: half the price of the catalog porn. Capable of handling greasy fingers. Not quite the heavenly vision, draped in halos and golden robes, but feasible. Possible. Real.

Yesterday, I took M back to survey the table. Price? Better. Not screaming at the kids when they spill? Much better. I got him signed on.

The biggest problem was, of course, that said table could not possibly fit in my car. I abandoned M and E at the store, and ran over to Lowe's (again with the hardware!) and bought webbing tie-downs. Came back over, and Brian, the style consultant and Wade, his sidekick, ratcheted that sucker down on top of my car.

Of course, everyone dreaded the trip back over the bay with a 200 pound table strapped to the car, but we made it without incident. (Great job Brian and Wade!) Legs secured, painters (here to repair the damage from the flood) helped to carry it in, and voila:

Low-def kitchen table porn. Suitable for life. Families. Grilled cheese.

Dear Pool Man,

I realize you are probably reading this on your laptop with wireless Internet while sipping margaritas by your pool. Is the glare off the screen harsh? Perhaps you should check the messages on your cell. I think my husband has left several. Hundred. Thousand.

Is the pool water refreshing? It was 97 degrees here yesterday. Very hot. Humid, too, especially for June. I imagine that by July, the heat will be nearly unbearable. Did your kids enjoy the pool? Do they have cool inflatable toys? I saw these hammocks that you can attach to the foam noodles and sit comfortably in the water. I notice some of them even have cupholders! That would be terrific, wouldn't it? Sipping margaritas in the pool!? Wow.

Having a pool REALLY is a luxury in this climate. And, sure, the maintenance is kind of a pain. But, being a pool man, you can probably zip through those chemical tests really quickly. I bet your pool water is sparkling clear. Unless you have a pool man, which would be funny. Although, I suspect you have time to tend to your marine refuge.

Yesterday, a friend invited us to their swim club for the day. The boys spent hours in the water, diving, splashing, playing like little otters. They really enjoyed the refreshing, cool oasis. We had a snack and everything. The pool club is very nice, although packing all the stuff is kind of a pain. What would be easier is to have a big bin with towels and sunblock and goggles and swim toys right by the pool. But, you probably have that at your house. For your kids.

I, too, have a bin right by the pool. I also have an over-sized umbrella and lounge chairs. I bought an outdoor fan with a mister, because the heat is really harsh in the backyard. We don't have any shade back there. But, fortunately, we haven't had to endure the harsh sun on the back pool deck yet this summer.

BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE A MOTHER #&(!*& POOL.

Do you know why we don't have a MOTHER *&(&^% pool yet?

Because YOU haven't finished your MOTHER (&@#(&^ job.

In March, you came by our house and measured the pool liner for a replacement. You've stopped by unpredictably and intermittently since then. We had the pool all full for about 8 hours, but the liner you installed was torn. And all the expensive water ran out of the pool bottom. Now, we have about 8 inches of water in the deep end. Sadly, that is not even enough water to cool poor, hot Clooney. Even if the water weren't all cloudy and disgusting.

If at all possible, could you please leave your poolside chaise lounge, take your adult Ritalin and get your self to my backyard? I would so appreciate having a pool sometime this summer. I mean, having to go outside in the middle of the icy night to make sure the filter was running so that water wouldn't freeze and rupture the whole pipe system was one way to enjoy the pool this past winter. But, right now, I'm feeling that an EVEN BETTER way to enjoy the pool would be to sip margaritas while floating blissfully around. I'm sure that you feel the same way about YOUR pool.

So, in conclusion, dear Pool Man, I am asking that when you get a chance, if you could, maybe, possibly, consider coming over and fixing my pool so that we could fill it up and swim in it, I would TOTALLY appreciate that.

Sincerely,
Julie

Drum Roll, Please

So, while I confess I feel incredibly shallow for caring soooo much how the house turned out, I am awfully stoked by how incredible the house turned out:

So, if you've been to my house, you know what a turnaround this is. The results were so worth the wait. Even though I didn't lift a hammer on this project, I did work hard. A special shout out to M who didn't say a word about how much this cost. Except for the red chair in the family room. Which was expensive and, "looks like it was dug out of a dead old lady's basement and sold at a garage sale." Rich old lady, indeed.

Things are coming to an end...

It's true, they are coming to an end. But in a good way. I have for you today, the premiere of Before and After, My Home Edition. Hooray! The first before and after picture of my new downstairs! Yes, exclamation marks EVERYWHERE!

Note the zen quality of the color. The new countertops. The new flooring. The super cute new light fixture. Ahhh.

I am taking up a collection for a new kitchen table. Not that I want to take your charity away from Haiti, or Yazoo City, MS, or really anyplace else that you give it, but. Send your donations. New kitchen table. It'd really pull the room together...

Hi, you busy right now?

Ya know, sometimes, life would be easier if people just did what they said they would do when they said they would do it.
This would involve WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY less chasing of people on my part.

My kids? That freaking bag from music class is still sitting by the back door. I asked E to move it on Saturday. This morning, I asked him, "How many days ago did I ask you to move this?"
"Six. But at least I can do the math."

Small consolation.

The plumber? WEEKS ago, we had the flood. We have been waiting in this post-diluvian morass all this time. The boys have been sharing my shower (they leave washcloths and towels all over the place. EW) and I am ready for the little hatchlings to go back to their own nest. Finally, the plumber calls Tuesday night at 4:30: "Can we come in tomorrow at 8 and install the part for your shower? The water will be off for a couple of hours."

Yeah, sure. Who needs water in the mornings?

The pool guy? New vinyl liner for the pool was ordered in February. He said they'd be getting to me after one other liner installation. I said, ok, since you'll be here so soon, why don't you just skip cleaning it? (I was thinking I didn't want to pay for fresh chemicals to be poured down the drain. Literally.)

YESTERDAY, the pool guy shows up to drain the now-swamp of my pool. It smelled like dead fish.
Seriously.

And inevitably, "Ma'am. You know that the bottom of this pool is cracked from roots? We're going to have to pull these up and re-concrete the floor of the pool."

So, we went from a 2 day, fixed-cost project to a pit into which we throw money.
Literally.

The yard guy? Oh, my very nice, honest, hard-working yard guy. He's supposed to be fixing the fence in the yard, spreading out some mulch, pruning the appropriate shrubs, mowing and feeding the grass, and planting some pots for me. I don't know if it is a bender this time, or if he's overworked, or what.

I WANT MY YARD CLEANED UP.

So, if you see my yard guy, the carpenter, the UPS dude, any representative from Pottery Barn, the drywall guy, or anybody else who you think might be able to help out over here, please a) ask them to get ON IT. and b) say 'please.'

For my sake. For my sanity. For the health of my marriage.

Declaration of Sane Semblance

When in the Course of homeowner events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the plumbing joints which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, gravity, and the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to insanity.

Resolved: Home ownership sucks. Mondays suck. Clumsy children suck.

We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men (but not all plumbing fixtures) are created equal, that they are endowed by
their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness (and the Pursuit of ER visits).

Thus, is the Preamble and first paragraph of the body of my Declaration of Insanity.

Our weekend ended with my washing machine exploding. Literally. And I am not saying literally but meaning figuratively. I mean, I heard a noise, and I went into my laundry room, and the spin cycle was blasting water out of the front door of the washer. Once I was able to tell the HAL computer to turn off the frickin' thing, I was able to open it up and see that the gasket in the door was shredded. First, when did washing machines require a computer that tells ME that I can't turn IT off? Hello? Who's in charge here? Second, did I accidentally run a load of ninja blades? Something for sure got stuck in there, and did its best to break everything. Fortunately, the warranty actually covered the trouble and this morning's sun rose with the lonely Matyag man and his hound dog sitting on my porch waiting to work.

Monday started off with a bang. Specifically, the bang of S's head on an oak stair. Despite S's proverbially hard-headedness, the stair won. Back to the emergency room. But, S, who is eternally optimistic, says, "it's okay to go back to the hospital, Mom. You don't mind driving." As if that was my problem. We waited at the ER, and I asked for a plastic surgeon acquaintance of ours to do the stitching, but he was busy inflating some one's boobs (presumably) so he couldn't see us til later. We slapped a Band-Aid on the booboo and headed to Wendy's for lunch. A couple of hours later, we were at the doctor's office, getting 4 stitches in S's beautiful face. He is determined to ruin that beautiful face, as if it were his life's mission. When he starts to drive, I'll have to keep an army of professionals: orthopedics, plastic surgeons, lawyers, insurance reps, and car repairmen on retainer before I can let the kid out of the driveway.

MEANWHILE, back at the ranch...M calls me to let me know things have turned sour. Presumably with the remodeling. I get home and it is raining. Inside the guest bathroom. A lot. And, apparently, it has been doing so for a while. Not like a seeping brown stain on the ceiling after the kids have been splashing in the tub. Like the weather gods laughingly kicked off hurricane season in my ceiling. The ceiling, the walls, the cabinetry. RUINED. We're on our hands and knees upstairs looking for the source. Much like a TV procedural, we formulated scenarios and pointed our fingers at several suspects. Wrongly. Because in leak hunting, as in TV, the first three suspects you bring in are innocent. It wasn't the plumber who installed the new toilet. It wasn't the shoddy silicone work in the two-year old shower. It wasn't the new sink in the boys' bathroom. Thankfully, it wasn't the work I did last summer in the bathroom.
It was a faulty fitting in the shower in the boys' room. The plumber discovered that this morning after cutting holes in every bathroom in the house. To be repaired. Later. At my expense.

While it was nice of the plumber to be here so early in the morning, it didn't help us much that the water was turned off at the main all night long. The boys got to bed before we shut off the water. But M and I went through our late night routine in the great outdoors. Where I was reminded again how much easier it is to be a man with external plumbing of his own. What happened outside, up against my house in the flower bed is between me and my God. And, possibly, my ankles.
When I woke up this morning, there was a chair up against the window in our bathroom. Question silently posed to M: answer silently given. Mother nature called him, and he needed a booster seat to answer outside the window.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of
Our House, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of this House, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent ; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the homeowner kingdom, and that all political connection between them and the oppressive crown, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy
War (against flood), conclude Peace (with all appliances), contract Alliances (with all utilities), establish Commerce (with all painters, contractors, carpenters and handymen), and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do (live peaceably in modern home). And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

During Normal Business Hours

So, in other news, my washing machine broke. OF COURSE my washing machine broke. Because everything is finally put back in the kitchen, and because I have mountains of dirty laundry, including TBall uniforms and PE uniforms that are to be used today. Because I have NOTHING better to do than to wait for my repair man, who has graciously given me an appointment window of 8AM to 5PM tomorrow.,
8 AM to 5PM is not an appointment window, it is a business day. I booked my "window" online, but had I been able to speak to a real-life actual human being, I would have pointed out that the point of scheduling appointments is to narrow down the entire business day into smaller sections of time for which a person could reasonably expect service. No real, live humans are to be found on the Interwebs.
What if everything ran on the cable-guy/repairman schedule?

"Sure, you may come see the doctor. She'll be in from 8 until 4 on Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She has surgery on Thursdays and Fridays, but she already has 36 people lined up on those days. Those patients are living in a tent city in the waiting room."

"No, ma'am. I am not late for school. This class runs for an hour--an hour long appointment window, in which I clearly arrived at minute 57."

"Your due date? Your baby is expected some time between January and November! How exciting for you!"

"I understand your emergency. Yes, please keep giving CPR. Help is on the way. The ambulance will be there soon. I expect them to get there between 6 minutes and 120 minutes."

"Say cheese. Now hold it for the next 17 minutes."

"Thanks for tuning into NBC. Conan or Leno will be coming on within 4 hours of prime time."

"Glad you could join me at Notcinnamon. Next blog will be posted when I have something to say."

Don't look under here!

Martha Stewart has somewhere among her alphabetized, laminated files, a list of all the chores you are supposed to do in your house and how often you're supposed to do them. I'm sure. In fact, on her website, I found no fewer than eight separate checklists for homekeeping: linen closets, kitchens, baths, periodicals, craft supplies and more. I found a list of six chores I should be doing every day. These include picking up clutter, sorting the mail, making the beds, cleaning as you cook, wiping spills and stains while they're fresh and sweeping the floor after dinner is cleaned up. I would also add doing a load of laundry, but that's just me. The picking up clutter one amuses me the most: we are instructed to scan a room every time we enter it, look for things that are out of place, and put them in their places immediately. (Okay, I guess I could do that) But here's the kicker: insist everyone in your house do the same.

Stop laughing. Seriously. Now.

My children have never met Martha Stewart, so they do not know they should fear her. Nor has Ms. Stewart ever met my children. And she has only one daughter, who by all accounts is nearly as perfect as her mother. So, in short, Ms. Stewart has never encountered a room resembling an exploded Lego factory, TBall equipment that seems to roam the house of its own accord, school supplies, coloring books, crayons, Bakugan, books, and other assorted crap that accumulates in my house. I have this sneaking suspicion that Ms. Stewart's daughter had tea with her dolly queen and made scones out of organic imagination. So, while theoretically picking up a room every time I walk into it seems like a good idea, it also seems, you know, theoretical.

Another one of my favorite 'homekeeping sites,' flylady.net suggests that every day I have a gleaming kitchen sink. Her rationale is that a clean sink will deter me from letting dishes pile up, give the kitchen an overall impression of clean and order. In fact, she posts 31 Baby Steps to achieve cleanliness in your house in one month, putting an end to "CHAOS: Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome." These baby steps include keeping a control journal, picking out the next day's clothes before bed, cleaning one area intensely for two minutes, and establishing a day's order to help make every task small so that all the jobs don't morph into one overwhelming episode of reality TV about hoarding.

Before I proceed, I'd like to address the vocabulary from these expert house minders: "homekeeping" "control journal." Homekeeping? Really, Martha? Living in the Hamptons with designer velvet furnishings and white carpeting is homekeeping. Trying to keep two domestic terrorists from turning the whole house upside down every day is sustainable living: as in, I try to sustain living every day.
In the end, I should be, it appears, spending more time on homekeeping than I actually do. Which is alarming, because I spend (it seems) an awful lot of time homekeeping. How could I ever do my six daily things from Martha, my 31 Baby Steps to a zen house from flylady, make a 30 minute meal from Rachael Ray, follow my Your Baby Can Read instructions, train my dog to not run out an open door like the Dog Whisperer, domesticate my children with the help of Super Nanny, find out what books to read from Oprah, landscape my backyard like Ty Pennington and still have time to watch my beloved Bones?

To quote another TV nugget of advice: CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!

This morning when the tilers came to demolish my existing tile, they had to remove the toilet, the washer, the dryer, the dishwasher, the trash compactor, the refrigerator, and the stove. So, you know, nothing I use or anything. While those major appliances were out of commission and away from the walls, I thought, "I bet Martha Stewart has advice for the maintenance of these things. I bet I can clean them and prepare them to be put back to work even better than before."

I was thinking about vacuuming dryer vents, refrigerator coils, wiping down areas never exposed to my sight.

When they pulled the refrigerator away from the wall, I thought I would cry. There was matted, dusty, dingy....fur?....that most closely resembled road kill. And not small road kill, either. Like big, dead, well-fed raccoons. These were not your ordinary dustbunnies. These were dusthares. On steroids. My vacuum choked and sputtered and had to be emptied every other minute.

And the worst part was, I kept thinking, my house is clean. It is. It's swept, vacuumed and mopped 3 times a week. My house is clean. I run dishes. I run the laundry. My house is clean. I clean out the pantry. I sort through the trash. I don't let piles of crap grow and grow. And yet. There I was. On my hands and knees, wrestling with dustbunnies bigger than Clooney under the fridge.

The dirt is here. I have seen the heretofore invisible enemy. And it scares me.

Storage Woes

So, it's only been two weeks since work began on the house. And in that two weeks, we've really been fortunate. The workmen have been amazing--helpful, neat, knowledgeable, diligent, prompt--everything you hope they'll be, but never expect to find. The budget is even moving along okay. Not exactly perfect, but certainly not alarming in any way. And the disruption has even been tolerable. Each night, the house is swept and tidy, and although there is a lot of dust, it isn't floating through the air, per se. I've been able to fulfill responsibilities outside the house, leave people working, and know that the work will proceed even if I'm not supervising.
I cannot emphasize enough how I feel like I rolled the contractor dice and came up a winner. Hardly ever happens to me, and I am really appreciative.
However.
Of course, knowing this house and its checkered history, when the carpenters demolished the existing entertainment center in the family room, they discovered that there was no parquet floor under it. Bare concrete. I went to a few flooring stores, and the carpenters contacted people in the trade, but all new parquet is made in 6" x 6" squares, not the 4" x 4" squares of my existing floor. Because the carpenters are really forward thinking and helpful, they suggested we pull up the flooring from the storage closet in the family room.
Great idea!
Yesterday, when they were ready to proceed with that step, I had to empty out the closet. In front of them. They were here, and they were chivalrous enough that they didn't want me to carry the contents by myself so they offered to help, but that just made it worse. Of course, this closet is the only closet that is not in a bedroom, so it is a catchall for all kinds of crap. The thing is, these are things I considered important enough to put away, right? And yet, there I was, in a closet.
This closet, when I'm trying to cram stuff into it, is the size of a porta potty, and when I'm taking stuff out of it (in front of other people,) defies all laws of physics and perhaps may be an endless wormhole to another corner of the universe. I was mortified.
A giant Rubbermaid tote filled with electronics including two VCRs, a surge protector, three bases for phones that have no batteries, and about 24 miles worth of wire, cord, and tubing. There was another giant Rubbermaid container with broken electronics, including 2 cameras, a cell phone, a Sonicare toothbrush, and a computer keyboard. There was a wire filing basket with gift wrapping supplies. Of course, the last time I put that crap away, I couldn't have bothered to wrap the silver curly ribbon back around the spool. I was wrestling with unruly curly ribbon and found myself handing the whole box to the carpenter. Really? A grown woman collecting curly ribbon? On purpose? It was embarrassing. Then, there were landfills worth of plastic bins, cubbies and totes. I should own stock in Rubbermaid. I have extras, but they weren't stacked neatly. And there were lids falling all over. And, then, of course were the 15 air vent filters I bought at Home Depot. They always run out of my odd size, so when I go, I have to buy the whole case, and it was crammed in there with the rest of the crap. There were some compact fluorescent light bulbs that I didn't know where to throw out (they have mercury in them!), all the CDs that we have put on the ipod, but don't want to throw out in case the hard drive gets damaged, and an entire moving box full of VHS cassettes of old TV shows, Northwestern games, movies, and concert footage.
At some point in our lives, we thought it rational to keep these things, pack them up, and move them around the country (more than once).
Why?
And, more importantly, why did I find myself wrangling spaghetti-like telephone wires in front of a total stranger? Why did I feel like we should keep my first digital camera that holds like 10 mgs of photos? Why?
That freaking closet took FOREVER to empty. Every inane thing that came out of it made me want to sink farther into the floor we were trying to salvage.
All of that stuff is currently residing in the foyer; my secret hoarding out for the world to see. I want desperately to be able to sort through it before I put some of it back. I'll get some shelves for it all, to help organize.
And some Rubbermaid totes. Surely, those will help.

Two If By Air: The Inlaws Are Coming

Nothing makes me crazier than my family. And I mean this in a good way, mostly. And since my family live across the country in the land of fruits and nuts and crazy liberal Californians, I am made crazier pretty infrequently.

I should clarify that I am pretty crazy even when my family doesn't come to town, but that is another story.

So, I guess if my parents lived in town, I wouldn't care if my house was dirty when they came over. I guess if they came over ever day, some days would be cleaner than others and holidays would sparkle. But, since they don't come over, I feel compelled to put my best foot forward and demonstrate through cleanliness that I, in fact, have my shit together.

In reality, the few days before my family's arrival are a tornadic symphony of NOT having my shit together. At. All.

And this time, it's worse. My family room looks like this:

and the dust and mess this generated is everywhere. The DVDs that used to be in the storage cabinet are in the guest room. As are the pictures that used to be on the walls, the coffee table, the lamps, the pillows, the EVERYTHING THAT USED TO BE IN MY FAMILY ROOM. This picture, which could be a metaphor for me and my totally untogether shit, distinctly says, "Do not invite people over. Your family room is still naked." Ironic that it is the family room that is in total chaos.

And yet, my family arrives today. My family room looks like that. The dust is a quarter inch thick over everything in the house. I have tile/floor/fabric samples strewn pell mell. I have sawdust as thick as autumn leaves in the carport. I have heaps of drop cloths and used paint cans on the porch. So, naturally, this morning, I am running around with a broom and a mop and a dust cloth trying to clean. It's like post-Katrina New Orleans and I'm gonna clean it all with a sponge.

This is nuts.

Even more so than usual.

Alright. I gotta go. I can at least empty the sink of all the dirty dishes.

My vacuum bites the dust

Apparently, my current infatuation with my pressure washer has angered my other home appliances. Their jealousy prompts them to act out in outrageous ways: burnt Eggos, leaky fridge, shrunken pants. Bummer.
But one appliance has taken this way too far.
I have a beloved vacuum. Its purchase represented the first time I didn't go to Target and buy the cheapest vacuum on the shelf. It was a Significant Purchase. Dyson Animal. It just sounds fierce. Plus, its purple and turquoise fun-ness puts me in the Miami Vice mood every time I use it. I can do that Phil Collins drum move from the theme song with the cleaning wand.
Its genealogy of 1000 prototypes has served it well. Distinguished British heritage, never loses suction, distinctive cousin of the highly effective Airblade hand dryer, all well tested and proven.
My Dyson has been through it all--dumped out houseplants, coffee grounds, spilled baby talc, disemboweled stuffed animals--and yet it still sucks up Legos with no trouble.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I was changing the filter (a very necessary part of maintenance and use, per my manual) and a deceptively important piece of the vacuum broke off. Now, the filter doesn't lock into place, and when its never lose suction five cyclone sucker turns on, the crap it sucks blows right out the side.
That's not good.
This is tragedy. Now, I don't know what to do. Do I rebuild the built in vac for my house at God knows what price? Do I buy a new Dyson Animal? Do I invest money in getting this one fixed since it has served me well for nearly a decade? Is it time to move on? Oh, appliance gods of the world, help me seek the answer to my question!
I am setting up a poll. Please vote to help me decide what to do.
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC28-ANIMAL
Fare thee well, you served me loyally, and I shall miss you.

As we progress out of mourning, here are some other options:
Canister Vacuum (medium grade)
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC23-MOTORHEAD-US

Or, replace with a more compact model since I no longer have a lot of carpeting:
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC25-ALLFLOORS

Or, replace with same model we are mourning.

Please vote and help me commune with the appliance gods.

Power tool porn

Sometimes, the fantasy doesn't live up to the reality.
For instance, I am sure George Clooney would cheat on me, and despite our fantastic good looks and fame, we would be miserably unhappy and I would have to sneak cookies past my Pilates instructor, chef, and nutritionist, and then I would feel guilty, and I'd have to go shopping in Italy to assuage my guilt, and then, I would have to buy something for George to make up for the enormous amount of money I'd spent, so I would jauntily jet back to the Villa at Lake Como with a beautiful gift like a Doucati, and have to apologize for my naughtiness and he would forgive me and we would spend the evening together admiring our beauty and watching reruns of Bones on TV in our deliciously soft hotel quality linens.
OK. So, maybe that fantasy has some possibilities.
But there are other disappointments. The fantasy of children is nowhere near the reality. The children don't just drop by in their perfect pajamas, smelling sweet, to kiss us goodnight. They're here all the frickin' time. And they're noisy and want stuff, and ew.
I read today in the Wall Street Journal, courtesy of a posting on Facebook, that bamboo fabric is basically rayon viscose. It is chemically engineered, and must undergo an incredibly toxic process to become a fiber, and is not ecological at all, or biodegradable, or even luxurious. It's pretty much the same stuff as my pretty pink Barbie nightie from when I was four. Disappointment. (Thanks, MS, for the reference).
Porn, too doesn't always work out as planned. In theory, your man is going to find it hot, and you are going to find it hot, and there you'll be, all bothered and desperate for each other and suddenly your sex life will be invigorated and perfect. But what really happens is that the plot is ridiculous and the dialogue so hideously bad that you take turns mocking it. And then, in a close-up, the high def TV reveals the worst complexion any woman has ever had, and all you can think of is the horrific rashes that STDs cause, and then you're both revolted, and turned off, and you turn on football, put your fuzzy socks back on, and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Running is a fantasy I occasionally indulge. I'll be all lithe and smooth while out there running in my (of course, new) running clothes. And this time will be different than the last, because I'm in the right place for running. And, I take my ipod and whip my hair into a stubby little pony tail, and take off down the street. And like 200 yards later, I have a stitch, and I've tripped like 4 times on cracks on the sidewalk in front of a crowded stoplight, and I run something like Phoebe from Friends, and the whole thing is best done in private on the treadmill at a speed more approximating a walk.
But today, TODAY. I pressure washed the carport, and oh, it was as good as I imagined. I broke down and bought an electric washer, which is inferior to gas in terms of psi, but superior in terms of storage and loudness, and I put it to use. I washed and bleached the trash can, the recycle bins, the kids plastic outside toys, the steps, the concrete, the decomposing hot tub, EVERYTHING. It's all gleaming. A terrific success. Nothing is stinky or dustbunnied, or leafy, or spiderwebby. It's all just clean. And my feet are pruny, and my pants are soaked, but lo, the carport is clean. And the magical washer has found its place in the shed for the next time I need it to work its wonders of cleanliness. My pressure washing fantasy has been fulfilled.

The Jaws of Ownership

Ok. Home ownership kinda sucks. I'm not complaining, because of course, there are many hundreds of thousands, millions of people who do not have the luxury of complaining. And yes, of course, I am complaining.
It's not just the money. I mean yes, it's the money. Everyone knows it's the money. The payments, the insurance, the maintenance, the unforeseen expense. But, the money is a problem for ownership of everything. I mean car payments, insurance, maintenance. Even renters have unforeseen costs. Spending money is the entry level nuisance.
It's more than the money. It's the life-sucking, time-warping burden of it all. The massive amount of paperwork going in and out. The decision making process, prioritizing, knowing everything, responsibility.
I've said before that to be a good parent and homeowner, one needs to be: an engineer, an architect, a contractor, a handyman, a lawyer, a doctor, an educator, a psychiatrist, a developmental expert, an arborist, a mechanic, a plumber, an IT expert, an air traffic controller, AND possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world. It's overwhelming, and it's relentless.
I can walk by any square inch of my house and realize there is work to be done: new siding, new pool liner, grout sealing, paint touch ups, weed removal, driveway repair, vacuuming, landscaping, organizing, replacing,updating, cleaning...the list is virtually endless.
Today, for example, I have to call the electrician to fix the bathroom ventilation issue, get an estimate on replacing the kids' bathroom ventilation thing, and fixing the light in S's room, which seems suddenly disconnected from the switch that has historically controlled it. I also had to call the Whirlpool dude to fix my recently deceased, though previously mentioned NEW dryer which won't start. I also have my usual errands to run, and have to walk past the putrefying smell of squirrel decomp from the back yard trash every time I get into the car. I need to reorganize the tools in the carport to make getting to the car easier, and I REALLY ought to hang some pictures before they get broken leaning against the walls.
This being, you know, Monday. It's frustrating. It's enraging. It's completely too much to process. I fixed the boys' commode (sorta), I improved the drainage into the yard during the most recent rounds of torrential rain, I washed ten thousand loads of wash. And there's MORE MORE MORE.
I didn't think it would be like this. I thought that once we moved into a house, there would always be a couple of manageable chores on the "honey-do" list, but I didn't think it would be a ledger of expensive, long-term, irritating big projects. Projects that involve hours on hold, waiting for repair/delivery/maintenance people who couldn't value my time any less. Projects that I didn't make for us to do--things that are just ageing, corroding, wearing out, or fading fast. I thought eventually, the house would just "be."
Right now, I am procrastinating on the next project, which is short and simple: going out to get the mail. There are going to be bills, and reminders, and fees, and more things that require mine or M's attention. Right now, I just want to stare straight ahead, look into the vast newness of the Internet, and forget the mildewing, ageing, eroding, warping, wearing out that is occurring behind me.
Phew. I'm tired just thinking of it all....

Technicolor Torture

Some things just don't go together. They really just shouldn't even be mentioned together in the same sentence. Nuts and gum. Mayonnaise and picnics, Circus Peanuts, and well...anything.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.

Pulp NonFiction

I think I need a lawyer. And a good one, too. Like TV sleazy defense lawyer good. Because I think some one in this house has made a deal with the devil. And we gotta get out of that contract.

This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.

I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.

Return of the Roaches

"Okay, then. If you call back, and I'm not here, they've either taken the phone, or taken me hostage. (Small squeaky voice) I. Love. You. (almost a whisper) 'Bye."


That is the phone message I left for M this morning at his work. They--GIANT, MEAN-LOOKING cockroaches--have been something I've talked about before. I'm already known as The Lady Who Hates Her Kids, I'd hate to be known as The Cockroach Lady, but I've just got to share. I assume everyone who's ever eaten at my house is now sorry they did, but I promise you, if you live in South Alabama, and you go through your pantry (not the canned goods, but the plastic bagged pasta, flour, sugar) that you will find cockroach pooh. And when you do, you will feel bad for judging me. Mark my words.


So, I found a teeny bit of cockroach pooh in the cupboard where I keep flour, sugars, medicine, the all important coffee, nondairy creamer. I thought, today's a good rainy day for cleaning off a shelf, I will take everything off the shelves in that cupboard, wipe them down with bleach and put everything back. Not too big a job. Just right for a Monday.


Then, I moved my two white porcelain canisters and stumbled on to a cockroach luau. A freakin' cockroach nightclub. Streamers, disco lights, little cockroach bimbos with cigarette trays like in a Sinatra movie. Little cockroach gangsters with white fedoras. It was a effin nightmare. Cockroaches snorting flour like lines of coke. Giving me the stinkeye, like I'm Narc, checking them out. FOUR GIANT COCKROACHES just sitting on the shelf like they own the place. Like I'm crashing their mojo. They are the rockstars, loungin' around, doin' the drugs, pimpin' the chicks, chowin' down on the white carbs, getting high on the brown sugar, munching the nondairy granules like gangstas.


(Me screaming.)


I take M's shoe and start breaking up the joint, like a bad fight bar scene in a movie. Whacking away. Shrieking, whacking, gagging. Over and over. There are bodies. I get down from the kitchen chair and run to the phone. I dial the 911 equivalent of roach infestation: 1-800-TERMINIX. The woman asks how I'm doing today, "not good. I reply. I just busted up a roach rave in my cupboard, and I'd like some one out here ASAP to nuke these mothers."


"Okay. What's your phone number or customer ID?"


"No. Not Okay. Not okay by a longshot. Okay would be hanging streamers and getting a mariachi band for their fiesta. Okay would be whippin' up an apps platter of potato skins and wings. Okay would be NOT HAVING BUGS the SIZE OF RODENTS IN MY CUPBOARD!!!!!!"


"So. Not ok. May I still have your phone number or customer ID?"


The Terminix man is coming tomorrow morning between 8 and 10. Quite frankly, I don't care if he bathes my house, and everyone in it in carcinogens and chemicals. I want those roaches dead more than I've wanted anything in a long long long while.


That being said, I am COMPLETELY revolted by the orgy of Bacchanalian eating and crapping that has been going on in my coffee cupboard. I go back to wipe up the corpses from the whacking, and ANOTHER roach is out on the shelf feeding on one of the dead ones. These things have no freaking soul. I mean, the body's still warm, and so the other one's thinking...'cool. Hot breakfast. This place is way better than Day's Inn.'


Everything is dead. I get bleach, gloves, and paper toweling. I begin the post mortem clean up. Gagging, wretching, trying not to think that I eat food from these very cupboards. I lift up the Splenda container and am satisfied. Even cockroaches know that artificial sweetner will kill you.


Then, I lift up the paper sack of flour. The bottom is completely eaten away. Flour spills everywhere, and with it, a cascade of baby cockroaches.


THAT IS IT.


I squash as many babies as I can find. I am the killer of babies. I am now a Roachicidal maniac. I am stomping, whacking and squishing anything that moves. Or even flutters in the breeze of the air conditioning. I am in a killing frenzy.


I see something in the corner of my eye, and notice there is a Jabba the Hutt roach in the sink. I think of the scene in Return of the Jedi, when Jabba has Leia on the chain. Those disgusting drooling aliens and rats, all gorging on food, and ogling the gladiator fight with the gross slimy thing. I suppose Jabba the Roach here was most recently in my cupboard, relishing the spoils of my baking supplies. Savoring the debased lifestyle of filth. Crapping with total disregard on the lids of my canisters.


Leaving everything, I head to Target. I buy, of course, roach traps. New flour, new sugar, new brown sugar, new anything that goes in a cupboard and $120 worth of BPA-free canisters. I come home, start tossing. If it's open, it's out. Grains, cereals, chips, crackers, any disgusting snack food my kids have on the shelves. Pasta, coffee, everything in a canister. Those effers are going to break an antenna trying to get into the vacuum sealed armor I bought. Tomorrow, the guy is going to come, and kill the relatives of the sleazoid family I killed today. Tomorrow is going to be a very bad day in roachland.


In the mean time, I have a tremendous mess to clean up. Flour, packaging, old shelf liners. It's all gotta go. Thankfully, tomorrow is trash day. So long, corpses. So long, infested packaging. So long, roaches.

Posts from Construction Hell

Hello, my pretties. I have once again returned from the grave...master bathroom. I spent yesterday in the clutches of evil, battling thirty years of oil-latex-oil-latex paint hell on my vanity. It's not just that the previous owners decided that latex could be painted on top of oil, but that both paints should go right on over the cabinet hinges.
Without exaggeration, I pounded each cabinet off its hinge with a hammer for the first 2 hours of yesterday morning. Then, I had to pry each broken hinge off the cabinet frames. Then, I took my new sander and chewed through old paint. Then, I wiped everything down, because oy, the dust, and put a coat of primer on it all. New cabinet drawers and doors will be arriving within the next couple of weeks. But, although I'm pretty sure I've said this before, "we're turning the corner on the bathroom" seems appropriate. I have to paint the ceiling. I have to paint the cabinet frame, and I have to find a competent electrician to wire the bathroom vent fan. Then, THAT IS IT. I swear. Really. I will NEVER do another thing ever.
Until the next thing I do.
Spending my days working in my bathroom, as exciting as the scenery is, has been a longer, more arduous and painful process than originally intended.
There is only one truly positive outcome from this experience (other than the new freaking bathroom): I have a tremendous sense of accomplishment. Even the couple of mistakes here and there (I am not pointing them out, because your eye will be drawn to them when you come to my house and see my bathroom....and when you come to my house you WILL see my bathroom, because we will be having our cocktails in its magnificent newness.) are signs of my learning curve. I learned how to patch walls, seal sinks, level mirrors, strip many coats of wallpaper, level a floor before tiling, sand and prime. And I learned these skills not in the antiseptic context of a brand new house, but in the "holy hell. What kind of crazy, drunk bastard installed cabinet drawers like this?" context of an old bathroom subject to cheap, half assed improvements.
It has been an experience, and I feel a certain affinity for my bathroom now. I feel like the grout we share--it on the floor, me under my nails permanently--will be the construction adhesive that unites us. I lost my construction virginity, so to speak, in that bathroom, and one day when my kids are grown, and this house is for sale, if I hear one person diss that bathroom, they're going to get it. If I can lift my right arm by then.