Last weekend we finally cleaned the living room. For most people, this is not an event, but it was the first time we cleaned it in the seven months since we moved in. It was so foul it was almost an endorsement for homelessness—compared to our mess, a Dumpster looked pretty sanitary.

We threw out five bags of trash; the other half Joe won’t let me throw out—part of his Great eBay Money Making scheme. Which we both know means that I’ll be throwing it out in the spring.

And while words cannot express how happy I am to finally be able to see the rug, there is a downside: I can see the rug. It’s the exact shade of cat vomit (I have had occasion to compare the two) and would be hideous even if it weren’t stained and moldy. Ripping it up is not an option because asbestos tile lurks underneath. Although I sometimes wonder if that’s not less of a health risk.

But overall, I haven’t been this happy since we put up walls. I can finally start to think about more fun home projects—and phase II.

We finally have a toilet paper dispenser.

For the record (and for those people who have suggested to me that perhaps this blog is not always fair and balanced) this was only installed because at 8 p.m. on Sunday night, Joe’s father, seeing my desperation, insisted on it.

And for this ten-second project, Joe actually fought me on placement. He wanted to mount it on the next stud over, about a foot and a half to the right in the above photo. I told him sure, and maybe we can put a picture frame around it too, as it will be the focal point of the entire bathroom.

I then informed him that this was one decision I was willing to go to divorce court over. He then told me, and this is a direct quote, that he hated me, and that the second I dropped dead he was going to move it.

I am totally fine with that compromise.

This was a banner weekend, and an exhausting one. The living room is still a mess, but my closet is finally ready to be filled!

Here are the details: The back wall is cedar-lined. The shelves are solid pine that I hand-sanded and finished myself. There are seven, count them, seven shelves for shoes (at five pair per shelf), and the closet rods are oval ones I custom ordered (and which arrived damaged, so we’re getting them at a discount).

Now, as gorgeous as it is, I do have some regrets. The biggest is Joe’s fault. I requested that the double rod section, where shirts and skirts go, be on the right, since I’m right handed. But since he only hears about 10 percent of the things I say that don’t mention his name, he forgot and did it backward. I didn’t discover it until it was too late.

The second thing is my fault. Despite endless discussions, I didn’t realize that the top rod of the double bars is too high for me. I can reach it from my tip-toes, but it’s a pain, and those extra inches between rods looks a little strange. It’s fixable, but Joe will be (understandably) mad if I ask him to move it.

But all in all, if it functions as good as it looks, I am happy. Still, I will take any reassuring compliments gratefully …

]]> http://renovationwars.wordpress.com/2009/10/10/closet-drama/feed/ 4 glurf closet finished web-pink-lookout-gi http://renovationwars.wordpress.com/2009/10/05/its-the-little-things/ http://renovationwars.wordpress.com/2009/10/05/its-the-little-things/#comments Mon, 05 Oct 2009 16:01:17 +0000 glurf http://renovationwars.wordpress.com/?p=1130 ]]>

I tried an experiment yesterday. I bought this toothbrush holder.

I’ve been looking for one for probably a year now (yes, I am that obsessed), but the way these things always happen is you stumble over them when you’re not looking at all. This one caught my eye because it had exactly three toothbrush slots, not four, and it reminds me of a bottle of Burberry perfume:

Come to think of it, if I ever get to a flea market, an old perfume bottle would probably make a cool toothbrush holder.

Now I knew that this is something Joe will never go for. So I bought the matching soap dispenser, too. When I got home, I snuck both into the bathroom and waited for him to discover them.

By the time he did, I had forgotten about them, and couldn’t understand why he was shouting “Oh, hell no” from the john. Then I remembered, started laughing, and told him, “I knew you wouldn’t like them. I’ll return them.”

And just like that, he said they could stay. Oh, he pretends to still be on the fence, but without me arguing, what’s the point? You gotta love reverse psychology.

This is the weekend nature went on the offense.

In addition to rodent infestation in the shed, virtually overnight our house proper became a magnet for this guy: Halyomorpha halys, the brown marmorated stink bug. And apparently his entire species.

I’m not squeamish when it comes to bugs, and Hal here is pretty harmless as insects go—no poison, no biting, no disgusting goo trail. But they freak me out for two reasons: There’ a lot of them, and they are relentless.

They flew into the garage, ignoring the citronella candles. They clung to the window screens in droves. Every time I turned around, I’d find one on me. They weren’t hard to catch, and I collected hordes in an empty water bottle, but I couldn’t seem to get away from them. The cat was surprisingly uninterested.

Later, when I was researching some way to obliterate them, I found out why. Hal, who came to southeastern Pennsylvania by way of China, has no natural predators. Birds and animals won’t eat them because they taste awful.

Consequently, the stinkbug population has been growing steadily since they first invaded the state more than 11 years ago. And there’s no really effective way of controlling them. Perfect. First cicadas and now stinkbugs. I can hardly wait to see what’s next–maybe locusts? I never realized being a homeowner meant being a part-time exterminator.

It’s been a few weeks since we attempted to clean the living room, so Joe and I gave it another shot. I use the term “clean” loosely, because I’m talking about removing enough crap to make a walkable path, not dusting and vacuuming.

Most of that crap belongs in the garage. The garage, unfortunately, is full of crap from the shed. And the shed, we discovered, is also full of crap. Mouse crap.

Since our last mouse encounter in June, we’d been setting and checking traps regularly, and made one kill so far. Then a few weeks ago, Joe reported that a trap had disappeared. We looked everywhere and couldn’t find it. About a week later, another one was gone.

We were stumped. No traps, and no bodies. Not even a tiny blood trail. How big, we wondered, would the rodent have to be that could sustain two non-humanitarian mousetraps and survive?

In my excitement to make my living room walkable, these recent events slipped my mind. Until I found one of the traps. The force of the spring must have propelled it backward off the shelf and onto the floor, behind a spare tire. Joe launched into CSI mode, donning gloves and grabbing a flashlight to show me the blood on the trap. And the search for the body was on.

As we emptied the shed, we uncovered telltale signs of the whiskered debauchery that had taken place for the past four months right under our noses. They’d chewed holes in bags of garden soil and through boxes, and of course, they crapped absolutely everywhere.

Worse, as we withdrew more gnawed, nested-in, and pee-reeking items, Joe discovered among them, to his complete outrage, his former hockey pads and $500 skates. The mice had used the latter as twin latrines. I may have smelled something worse in my lifetime, but I can’t say what.

Joe’s a packrat, so by default it was mostly his things that were destroyed, and he was out for blood. And while I don’t blame him, I couldn’t help but think of the tiny, furry lives that played out in our backyard, day by day, just as ours had played out a hundred or so yards away.

We deduced, for example, that at some point one mouse must have fallen from a rafter into an open air conditioner box, only to discover his only means of escape was to gnaw through the cardboard to freedom. This kind of detail is far too intimate to know about a creature you want to kill—or may already have snuffed—and it made me feel like the villian in a Disney movie.

My moral compromise was this: We left two baited traps inside the shed—fair’s fair, and mice do not pay or even contribute toward my mortgage. But the next day when I discovered Boo toying with a field mouse, I slammed a bucket over it, had Joe transfer it to a glass jar, and released it in a nearby park.

Live and let live. As long as you do it outside my shed.

I am obsessed with my lawn. I’ve watched it gradually deteriorate since we bought the place. This house never had that much going for it, but the yard was so nice we figured they must have used a lawn service.

Now, despite two seasons of slavishly attending to its every need—weed killer, fertilizer, lime, new topsoil—it looks like crap. We’ve got weeds, brown spots, sparse patches, invading zoysia, you name it.

Joe gave up after the grass seed we planted and dutifully watered—and which appeared to be thriving—up and died. But I have only just begun to fight.

Fall is prime season for grass. I have a soil sample test kit, but it’s already late in the season, so I’m looking into aerating, dethatching, and top-dressing this weekend regardless of the results. Oh yes, I’ve done my research.

My biggest obstacle is Joe, who refuses to have anything further to do with our traitorous blades, and this:

The 288-pound core aerator I need to rent. But somehow, I’ll find a way.

September—which I can barely believe is more than halfway over—has been a whirlwind of social engagements, and I’ve noticed a pattern. Somewhere in the conversation, I will be asked, “How’s the house?”

I am not asked about Joe or Izabelle nearly as often. Hell, Obama isn’t asked about health nearly as often. It’s another reminder of how long this renovation has been dragging on.

And I’d enjoy the progress reports if I had anything to tell. But unlike a year ago, when we were putting up walls and installing tubs, our progress is in the details.

Although, on Friday I awoke after coming in late the night before to discover I have closet shelves. It was a beautiful sight. Even better? Joe says we have enough wood to add three more shelves for shoes alone. I am almost giddy.

Now I am on a mission for closet rods, clothes hangers, and shelf paper. But that’s another post.

Because we are certifiably insane, we went to the Atlantic City In-Water Boat show this weekend. I mean, our house is only half in shambles, and only a fraction paid off, so why not consider another major purchase?

But Joe wants a boat the way I want a dog, and now that his parents and grandmother both have shore houses on the water, there’s going to be no stopping him.

So we spent around four hours climbing in and out of vessels ranging from those the coast of a luxury car to multimillion dollar yachts with roughly the same square footage as our house, and probably more storage space.

We didn’t end up buying anything, which is just as well. The most affordable fishing boats cost what I assume our kitchen remodel will. And one, though its bathroom nook was little more than a port-a-pot and a radio, did have a toilet paper holder.

I made sure to point that out to Joe.

If anyone has a clue, please tell me. This is my last peony and it’s going the way the other one went, which is to say to that great compost heap in the sky.

Is it a fungus? A plant disease? Or do they all just get like this in the fall (please, please, please). Peonies are my favorite flower, and Joe already destroyed the one beautiful, thriving bush we had when he dug up the ivy in the back bed.

Is there a plant doctor in the house?

PS, the lavender bushes aren’t doing so well either–what gives?