Organizing My Kids' Closet Out Of Necessity (And Not OCD).

As many of you know, I am currently 82 months pregnant with my third child. Thusly, the Big Girls (as they are suddenly/weirdly being referred to) are going to share a room. 

This means they need to share a closet. 

And being as this is still the fixer-uppiest home on the northwest side of Chicago, I have yet to fix up Nora's closet. We've been way too busy with things like exploding sewers and rats in the kitchen. (Come visit!)

I mean, we definitely [immediately] re-painted her closet and room from its garish hot pink, black, and obscene graffiti combo to its current Sunshine Yellow and white...but that's about it. 

Here's what it looked like a few days ago:

Sure is a poor use of space!

Hot Messville.

And since- as it turns out- babies are expensive, our budget was limited for this closet project. Thankfully, The Container Store was having an Elfa sale. (I swear I'm not getting paid by The Container Store or Elfa or People Who Hate Bad Design.) And the kind folks at The Container Store promised me that this whole shebang could be done in a cinch.

WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT, I said to myself. And to P.J. And to the girls.

So I stripped everything out of the closet and got to work. (Because P.J.'s agreement to "take care of it" sounded way too vague and in the future.)

Not a bad space, size-wise. But good Lord, is it scufftacular.

Turns out, there was a bizarre trim around the center of the closet (mid-board? Non-ornate wainscoting?) that needed to be pried off.

By hand.

Yes, I'm aware that I make the weirdest faces in the whole world.

And honestly? That was the hardest part. Clearing out my own junk. Because the framing went up in under ten minutes.

Why yes, I should have painted. But I'm pregnant. And lazy.

Pro tip: "Leveling" means nothing if the "house" and "floor" aren't "level."

And once the framing went in, the shelves snapped into place like Whoa. And I organized two little girls' impressive collection of tunics, jumpers, and tutus into one smallish and extremely organized space.

Why yes, they are better dressed than I am.

And obviously they're gonna keep this space immaculate.

Because I've just put everything within arm's reach.

Dammit.

Mini Kitchen Makeover, Part 3, AKA P.J. Thinks The Backsplash Looks FINE.

Apologies for the utter lateitude of this post: I was busy feeling every single minute of the four hour and thirty-five minute flight to LAX next to the totally awake and needing to acknowledge/touch/drink everything Susannah. (Interesting sidenote: right before the descent, she asked to sit with P.J. so I swapped daughters. And Suzy fell asleep as the plane touched down onto the tarmac. GOOD FOR YOU, P.J.)

But back to the kitchen. It’s done! [Ish!]

Over the past few weeks- see here and here- we've removed the janky countertops. Stained and refinished the warped cabinets. And my job (for the past week and a half) has been to mortar and tile and grout and re-tile and re-grout and super glue my finger to my thumb.

We chose a gorgeous glass mosaic tile because a) I have an unfortunate love of aesthetic and b) and over-inflated sense of ability.

Had I but known how incredibly sag-happy all of those miniature tiles would get on an oddly mortared wall (not to mention how incredibly uneven our cabinets/[walls/home] have the tendency to be), I would've just spray painted the whole thing magenta.

Except that spray paint is illegal in the city proper of Chicago. 

Gosh, I look competent. Hour One.

[Picture deleted due to Wall Rage, Day Four.]

[Picture deleted due to Ugly Cry, Day Nine.]

Ohmigosh, it's a finished kitchen. Easy!

You can't even see the blood stains and puddles o' tears and that place where I punched a hole in the wall! 

Who wants to come over and Not Use My Kitchen For Food Prep?!

So yes, "new" kitchen at one seventh of the price. (Unless you factor in usage of your spouse's thumbs into the overall cost. Which P.J. apparently doesn't.) And I'm decently happy with how a large part of my home looks. (Or at least I will once I'm rested/re-grow the skin on my hand.) 

Except...

Have you seen my "master" bathroom? I think it needs some attention, don't you? 

We Are All So Very Tired. And Dreaming About Grout.

Last night, I was awakened at 3am by a smallish person, excitedly telling me about dreams and stories and silly things. Well, I had to take her word for it because frankly, I wasn't finding her jive all that hilarious.

But she's usually pretty spot on with these things, so I'll trust her that it was all very funny.

Anyway, the 3 year-old didn't wake me from the soundest sleep. At the time of her arrival in our bed, I was tossing and turning with half-awake dreams concerning glass mosaic tile and an ever-shifting squishy wall of mortar.

I'm not proud of this story, I'm just telling it like it is.

And since I possess a glorious memory foam pillow, I spent more time than I care to admit trying to flatten my pillow's surface, completely convinced that it was the errant backsplash wall. Ever try to flatten a memory foam pillow? Yeah, it works real well.

And Nora never fell back to sleep.

And I never managed to flatten that pillow/mortar wall.

And Susannah had her 18 month shots this a.m., along with an exciting blood draw which included the nurses' third consecutive visit attempt to find her baby veins.

We are all Feeling Feelings.

And as of publication time, none of those "feelings" have been that of anyone's face hitting anyone's bed-like surface. Which is just as well-

My pillow clearly cannot be trusted, anyhow.

Mini Kitchen Makeover, Part 2, AKA P.J. Gets Out The Power Tools.

You guys. Turns out, getting parts of your kitchen remodeled (and then repeatedly walking in and out of said room) is better than waking up to check your stocking or Easter basket or Valentine envelope or birthday table pile (what?) in terms of Immediate Gratification Awesome Feelings. 

Last week we got these ridonk cabinets resurfaced. This week? Oh my word, QUARTZ COUNTERTOPS.

Let's review what we had been working with:

Man oh man, those cabinets are purty. That counter is a little wonky, though. Can we get a close-up?

Yup, that sure is an impossible-to-remove stain. Boy, that must've been a joy to live with!

I can't stop staring at those rad cabinets! But there sure is a lot of that fugly countertop, huh?

Warped, stained, unevenly seamed Formica. Let's hear some offers, boys!

Yeah, it's over there too, offending my coffee maker.

Peej had been fully prepared to use the jaws of life to remove the counters.
Turns out, it's super easy to remove a counter if it's never been attached to anything, ever.

Anyone need a die? Some shelf liner? How about a flat razor?
(What kind of establishment have we stumbled upon?)

P.J. uses a power saw in the kitchen. Sure, he'll chase loud teens from our lawn and threaten
car alarms in his boxers, but a sawing in the kitchen at 9pm? The girls'll be fine. (They were.)

P.J. was pleased/dismayed to find how easy sink removal was.
Because the sink had never been bracketed or attached to our flimsy Formica.
Our cast iron sink was just hanging out on old particle board. Hooray!
(Also, Peej is wearing my Dad's flannel and it makes me wicked happy.)

Yesterday morning, guys from The Home Depot showed up and saw that P.J. had left some nice, neat
holes just right for new quartz countertops to fit atop of. So here's what they left us. (A shiny sink, too!)

Hey there, pretty lady.

It's so clean and sturdy and looks like a real kitchen where people could even live and prepare food!

Here is where there was oh-so-recently a stained countertop. It is no longer.

Let's be in love forever. 

Next up: Backsplash! Water re-connection!

And that fun moment where I never let anyone use the kitchen ever again.

Mini Kitchen Makeover, Part 1, AKA PJ Twitches In The Corner.

So, once upon a time there was this kitchen. And it happened to be placed directly into the house which I had so recently purchased. (Meaning it now fell under the category of things which were entirely my problem.) Here is a photo of said kitchen, circa 2009:

Funny story- we have no idea what that brown glop consisted of, only that it required a chisel to pry free. A CHISEL.
Also, that orange travel mug on the counter was what I used to catch water from the gushing sink drain
mere moments after this picture was taken. Can you see the rat? Not yet? Wait half a year. They'll be right by that pipe.

Another pic circa 2009. It was around this time when I started having doubts of being a homeowner.
As in, I already wicked missed renting.

Ah, here we go. This was taken last week. That tile is really helping no one at all, huh? If you
can zoom in, it's easier to see the dated pattern, impossible-to-remove grease stains from the '50s,
and more than a few splotches of my teardrops. The flash of my camera, however, IS my friend.
It masks the "Victorian Pearl" shade of paint better known as "Baby Pink." (We realized it was "Baby Pink"
once the third coat had dried in the kitchen. And up and down three staircases. Ha HA!) 

Same kitchen, same last week. Those cabinets aren't really bringing their A Game, now are they? Probably
because they're warped, faded, and at least three separate grains and types of wood. And that counter just puts the
lame in laminate, doesn't it? (If you try really hard and shove the 'e' from the back to right next to the 'm'.) 

Last Friday: So we had our guy- he of Oh My God, My Sewer Exploded, Can You Fix This Floor fame- rip the
backsplash tiles out and away forever and ever Amen. Not Pictured: Me, sobbing on the ground
when Danny informed me that the walls in the kitchen were made of yellowed, crumbling plaster.
("How old is this house, again?" Asked in grudging admiration. Answer: Not old enough or with
character enough to be fully awesome. Juuuust...old enough to be broken.)

I took advantage of this mini overhaul to scrape three layers of shelf liner from each cabinet. It was a soul-crushing job. I kinda wished the house's exterior had been made of this stuff. IT WILL OUTLIVE US ALL.

This past weekend: Here I am, attempting to heat and peel the third layer from the first board in the first cabinet.
Also, pleasantly telling my eldest to kindly not spray me with a bottle of water while I'm holding an electrical appliance.
Shortly thereafter, we switched to flat razors. ON THE SHELVES, THE SHELVES.
You can also [kinda] see that I've painted the walls a color that Behr calls "Pip" and I call "Well, I guess
we just have white walls, huh?" P.J. is thrilled. He thinks white walls are what adult homes have. 

Monday: After the guys from N-Hance wood renewal took our cabinet doors back to their warehouse
for prepping, I realized that my daughters FINALLY- at long last- had somewhere to sit and read. 

Tuesday: The fellas at N-Hance sanded and polished the cabinet frames while the doors were off becoming fully
awesome. And those are the stripped shelves which drove me (and Peej and Nora and Suzy and my oh-so tolerant pal Bethany) fully crazy. If I ever suggest using shelf liner to anyone, you all have full permission to bludgeon me to death-
or at least give me hundreds of floral, plasticky papercuts.

Wednesday: It pretty much looks we got all new cabinets. These puppies were buffed, repaired, and stained
Burnt Umber, AKA The Color Which Renewed My Faith In This Ridiculous Kitchen.

I love this color. Also, the new drawer pulls. "Keely," you ask. "Are those dark brass with
copper edging?" Yes, yes they are. And they're spectacular.

This was totally worth shoving the entirety of the kitchen into dining room for the better part of the week.

But boy, those counters are still janky, right? And what about that unfinished plaster wall, just primed n' ready for a new glass mosaic backsplash? Stay tuned for next week, when we get a non-janky counter and a new glass mosaic backplash! I'll be here. 

P.J., however, might be somewhere breathing into a paper bag.

The Post Where I Beg My Dad To Come Back To Chicago.

Dad, today you start your seventh round of chemo. And while it's not the super-funnest thing you'll ever do, I'd like to remind you of a time when you were working on a house so hopeless you [silently] wished to burn it down.

That house was my special fixer-upper house, Dad. And I'm so very glad that you didn't follow through with your initial response of kicking the house into a bricky heap while choking back Ugly Tears (uh, maybe now I'm confusing you with me.)

This picture kinda sums up what you were working with. Remember that fan? Yeah, that fan was roughly five and a half feet off of the ground. And totally hanging at an angle. It was the Fan Of Certain Decapitation. I called it The Highlander fan, remember that? (Yeahhh, you thought that was a nerdy joke then, too.) Well, you fixed that fan- as well as lifted it to a whopping height of about feet, making it slightly more suitable for the next family of borderline carny-folk to move right in. (And you placed six more ceiling fans in the house, giving us air all over the place! Sure, we couldn't breathe all that well due to the boarded-up and shot-out windows, but you work with what you've got, right?)

Baseboards were boarded to bases. Things like nails spiking out at face height were secured behind actual trim. Locks were changed and storm doors were added- preventing random passersby from just waltzing on in. (Not sure who would've wanted to, but you ensured that they couldn't, and that's my point.)

And that door resting against that pocked wall in the photo? If you'll recall, there were many, many doors resting against many, many pocked walls.  You fixed 'em all- doors were hung, walls were spackled. By the time you left, the place looked a lot like a building where one could actually reside and not worry about things like rodents running in from the backyard. (At least not through the door.)

And that's a wicked teensy fraction of the work you've done to this Money Pit [Of Dreams.] At the end of each day, your clothing would be so drenched in sweat and unknown/unmentionable substances that we all offered to bury your shirts in the backyard for you.

So Dad. You can do this chemo thing. Because- seriously, remember what was going on in the bathrooms? You're tougher than chemo because you could handle what was going on in the bathrooms. Seriously.

And get better soon.

We have a lot more work to do.

The Perfect Day (Doesn't Exist).

"No, please, tell me more about your Plan For The Day."

Some mornings I wake up with A Plan. And I know exactly how the day will unfold:

I'll finally finish that scene. That one that's kinda holding back the progress of this, the latest draft of twenty for this godforsaken play, and it will All Make Sense. (The success of this show, of course, will catapult me into crazy Financial Comfort. Because let's be honest: I really don't want fame. I'm way too tired for that. I want a nap. A nap in a super nice [yet well within our means] bed. Dream big, Flynn.)

The knowledge that I've done something Artistic and Useful will really free me up to examine our home and all of the ways which I've [oh-so recently] been neglecting the heck outta it. Kitchen floors will be devoid of crumbs and whatever that thing in the corner by the table is. At least for an hour.

Obviously, the ability to balance a creative endeavor and maintain a non-filthy home will pave the way for what I really want for this day- and all of my days- I will be an Awesome Mom. Books and art projects and snacks that aren't from week-old car seat Ziplocs. My daughters will hold my hands as we dance to totally appropriate music and snuggle on the [completely cat hair-free] couch.

My husband and I, drunk on the knowledge that we're raising superb people in a relatively clean environment, will share Grownup Conversations and Meaningful Moments. (And be snoozing by 9pm.)

Doesn't that sound like a wicked terrific day?

I think about that imaginary day at 8:20am, by which time I've already said things like "Is that what we do with fried eggs?" and pried the younger child's leg from the freezer door. An hour later the script stares me in the face, taunting me with its lack of definition and overabundance of run on sentences. (Are you shocked?) This, of course, could all be due to the fact that I'm sitting on my knees on the kitchen chair, attempting to avoid touching crusts of Floor Bread with my socks.

And moments later, when a smallish person asks for help removing fitted sheets from her sister's wonky dresser drawer, I manage the pull the entire thing down on my own foot, crushing my pinky toe into unsympathetic oblivion. (Because really- who gives a darn about someone else's pinky toe, regardless of its future inability to be used? Ever.)

But while I'm down on the floor, wondering how the crime scene investigator will piece together the circumstances of my demise...the baby hands me a book. And then backs up into me, seating herself on my lap with nary a glance, absolutely certain that I'll be there to catch her diapered bum.

And so I read to her. And she looks at me like I'm magic.

Which is all I really wanted out of this day, anyhow.

New Rules For A Less Crabby Me.

I'm just gonna crawl over there and put dirt in that corner.

I've come to a realization.

A realization I had about a year ago. And a year prior to that one. But one which never fully sinks in.

Nothing ever really is done, is it? Sure, you could go all meta and philosophical on this one, but I'm asking it in a very ephemeral, here-and-now kinda way: Why do I feel the need to finish things before I can be nice to myself?

I stay up way too late trying to finish tasks; laundry-folding, bathtub-cleaning, sammich-making, article-writing, etc., etc., etc. And guess what? There is never a moment where I stand up and yell: Cleaned all the dirt! Cooked all the food! Wrote all the words!

Because that moment in time does not exist. Even if I scrubbed every last inch of my house (and my bogglingly filthy children), and even if I laundered and folded and sanitized every last dirty thing...there I'd be, standing in clothes that themselves would need cleaning. And I'd probably have a dirty shower at the end of it all, too. SO I NEED TO STOP TRYING SO HARD.

Not entirely. Not really. I'm far too OCD to leave the cabinets ajar and piles of socks unmatched, but I can implement a new set of rules for myself: By 9pm, LEAVE IT ALONE. No more random social media surfing. No more work. (Unless they're paying me tons, then I shall scrap this stupid new set of guidelines.) Read something written on something papery. Take a bath with nary a concern for soap in the eyes. (Well, I should still be careful, but I shouldn't have to talk someone down from a tantrum, that's my point.)

In short, I'm gonna start being nicer to myself and actually take a bit of time to revel in the end of the day...

...Which will rev me up for a full morning of face-poking, knee-climbing, dirty-making awesomesaucitude.

Crummy Crumbies.

...And then there are the days when you realize that you are actually too tired for coffee. Like, too tired to make yourself another cup, too tired to consume it, and too tired to acknowledge the caffeine (which, let's be honest, would be like putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun).

So you have another cup of coffee. And you sit on the floor while drinking it because- again- you're on borrowed energy, here.

And you look at your kitchen from the floor and think to yourself- Wow, but this place is filthy! Like, how many cheddar goldfish have to die in protest before someone wipes a damp cloth along the baseboards?

You look at the clock and realize that, by 9am, you've already had A Day. And there's a very real possibility that the same child has had two cups of milk while her sibling went without. This causes you to wonder whose overnight diaper you changed. (You know you did two of them...but were they equally distributed? Seeing as the eldest kid is currently at her preschool, you decide to chalk that one up to Moving On With Our Day.)

Then you realize that the only three coherent thoughts you've had about your household in the past 48 hours have been GRIMY and NEGLIGENT and HAUNTED. And then you get super depressed because you remember how not that many people commented on the previous day's post about your haunted nativity set- and specifically one of the Three Kings, the one who likes to spin and jig around the baby Jesus' cradle.

GOOD LORD, you say to yourself, IS MY HOUSE SO PUBLICLY HAUNTED THAT A SPINNING KING NO LONGER SEEMS NEWS-WORTHY?

This worries you.

You remind yourself that you are lucky to have a [haunted/crumby] house and even luckier to spend your days blogging about things like exploding washing machines and how social media makes you angry.

And you have a degree, you tell yourself. While sitting on the floor, drinking coffee out of a mug with bears on it. A degree printed on a frisbee.

Oh, this is not helping.

But then you remember that it's December 6th. The Feast Of Saint Nicholas. (And your half-birthday.) And you remember how you're married to a good little Catholic. So obviously there are treats waiting for you in your boot, and the boots of your kiddos. Chocolates and advent calendars for the gals, and your favorite eye cream for you. (Which, admittedly, to the uninitiated would seem like a pointed criticism of your beauty routine but, given how you've been weeping in his face about your under-eye circles, seems like a timely and thoughtful present. From Saint Nick.)

So you cheer up. And wipe away the damn goldfish crumbs.

At least you look perky while doing it.

The Glass Menagerie UPDATE.

And no, I'm not watermarking this picture. If anyone
really needs to steal an image of a glass cat- have at it.

There has been an update to the rapidly unfolding Glass MenagerieGate of 2012. Namely, the cat has been found.

The cat has been found.

My friend Vicki, whom I had contacted for help, had suggested that the glass animals were in the living room. Now, I had looked in the living room. I had emptied vases, opened the radiator baseboards, and upended the couch. (And it's a sectional, so you know I was serious. You don't just lightly upend a sectional.) But I looked again. And found nothing.

The next night, my sis Em, her boyfriend Dan, and their friend Tanya were here for dinner and I was regaling them with my [slightly embarrassing] tale of love and loss. At the end of it, they simultaneously stood and asked where the flashlights were. And boy did they scour. (I half-wished I had given them a dust rag and instructions to fold whatever was in their way.)

Finally, we ended up in the living room (and they were doing a number on places I didn't even know that I had failed to clean) when I suddenly decided to sit on the couch again. And shove my hand under the middle cushion- a place where not only had I checked and checked and checked again, but also the place where I had spent the past three weeks rapidly finishing my latest play...

...When a tiny glass cat tumbled into my palm.

And here's where it gets super flattering- I cried. More than a little. Yeah, I had a Laura Wingfield moment.

It makes sense that this little guy was found before his brethren, since he had been lost well before the house upheaval. But it gives me hope. Because if we can find an impossibly small orange cat (whom Emily suspects is actually an otter), then who's to say we can't find a veritable army of teensy (and quite possibly dusty) animals?

The moral of the story may be that I need to vacuum my couch more.

But I'm willing to hear other explanations.

Way Back Wednesday.

Just for a lark (multiple larks, if you like), let's take a stroll down memory no-through-traffic-construction-cones lane and see what we were up to in the ol' Fall of 2008. 

There were no biological children residing with us. We were still house-huntin' renters. And I still talked about bodily functions way too much. Enjoy!

***
Originally titled: Jefferson Park- That Sounds Far.
October 14th, 2008

On the way to work this morning (on Tealie Elizabasket, might I add) I passed a lot of construction sites, workers lounging and porta-potties. The best part? The "company name," as it were...is The Drop Zone. Okay. I can think of three really inappropriate things about naming your portolet company The Drop Zone. Anyone else? Go.

And speaking of poop (I really hope this doesn't turn into a post about poop, I honestly don't know how this happens) on our way along the Chicago Marathon race site we passed signs that read- Poop If Ya Gotta! 

Okay!

And on the topic of the marathon and no more poop...we got to see a bit of the marathon (and a teense of Greektown) when we went to cheer on the marvelous Annie Gloyn in her second marathon! 26.2 miles is impressive anyhow, but Annie one-upped the challenge by racing during an 83 degree day! She is so hardcore. (As are Tom and Emma, who, from what I'm told, won the Boston half marathon. Together. Awesome.)

On our way back home on the blue line (a.k.a the Pee Pee Line- see, folks? Excrement is everywhere) we decided to ride to the Jefferon Park stop to check out (stalk) the home we're jonesing for and the surrounding 'hood. We hopped off and saw pretty much what you'd expect; a dingy, busy Chicago terminal with tons of productive people chilling on benches. We passed a McDonalds and a few rib joints (one of which is actually supposed to be really good.) We crossed under the Metra track (throw in a helicopter and a cab and you've got every way of actually getting to this neighborhood) and...we rubbed our eyes. Suddenly we were in Mayberry. Tree-lined streets, folks waving hello and sitting on porch swings. I'm sure the colorful leaves and the sunny day helped but we were blissing out on the 'burbiest part of the city. We walked past the house we're eyeing (twice) and marvelled at it's hugeness. It must be floorless, we told ourselves. That's just how our house luck runs these days. 

So the next night we had an appointment to see the home at 6:15. Well, 6:15 came and went, as did 6:30, 6:45 and so on. The house was dark and no one was answering their phones. P.J. and I took advantage of this time to run around the backyard, jump on the porch and troll the gardens. The longer we were there without the owners the bolder we became in how we'd fix it up. 

"This porch needs to be shored up. Maybe we should redo it in stone?"

"This side yard needs to be dug up and re-sod. Is that a word?"

"That carport? Tear it up!"

Regardless, we were still eager to see what the owners HAD done inside the house. We finally got a series of calls in which "the owner" told us that he was "on his way." While we waited we saw a black cat who happened to cross our paths. Three times. In fact, it was more of a circling motion. P.J. reminded me later that the cat also lunged at me and rubbed himself against my boot. Somehow I blocked this out. I think I was frantically trying to pray to the saint of undoing a black cat's bad luck. Am I mixing religions again? 

Finally, at 7:15pm the front door opened and an eldery man stood silhouetted in the darkness. And he was shirtless. (Did I forget to mention this part, people I spoke to last night? He was totally shirtless. And old. But sans fried chicken so we were hopeful.)

Turns out, this guy had been asleep in the attic the whole time, as evidenced by a rumpled bed and a blaring television set. (Sing it with me, folks...foreCLOOOOOSUUUUUUUREEEE. It's a song sung predominantly by white middle class folks who later feel terrible about themselves.) 

HOWEVER. The house was beautiful. Truly. And not just 'cause I'm feeling guilty about the foreclosure comment. The woodwork was kinda stunning, the floors were gleaming, there was a staircase in the front and back of the house (we could play Benny Hill!) and there was tons of room. The kitchen was CLEAN and the bathrooms new. Sure, there was a double sink on the first floor bathroom but it was a NEW double sink! Upstairs were four really big bedrooms, closets and another full clean bathroom! Crazy. A foyer opened off the hallway to the attic staircase. Upstairs, aside from hosting a tired elderly person, the attic also featured two really big unfinished rooms without the scariness we've been used to. There was also a wide staircase down into the basement- no matter, as I will never never go down there (I hate basements) but it's a decent thing for P.J. to know about. Add to that a large yard and some cool neighbors we met during our HOUR wait...it may just work. If we can get money off for that leany porch. And, you know, ripping up the carport. And if they removed EVERYTHING currently in the house. (Seriously, there were like three entertainment units and four couches in the living room alone. And lots of children's things. As P.J. ominously whispered in his best Lifetime/horror movie/after school special voice, "Where are the children?")

And now that I think about it, why did they leave Grandpa in charge of showing the house? Sans shirt and sans English? Imagine who they removed...

So now I suppose the question remains (who am I kidding...there's a trillion questions) who's feelin' Jefferson Park? (And who's gonna bring me takeout from all the Roscoe restaurants I crave?)

And I hope you're all cool with handmade Christmas presents this year.

The Stunning Conclusion To Our Saga.

Remember back in April and May and June, way back when my house was a swirling pit of stinky despair? (It's a faint recollection, but it's there.) Well, I'm sure after the new pix of the downstairs in June everyone was all like- "I guess they only got two rooms refinished after all!" Nope. We got 'em all done, only it took way longer than we had expected to, you know, play Downstairs Jenga with storage and cleaning and general put-back-togetheritude. 

So now, after sewer pipe implosions and cesspools and dug trenches and jackhammer dust and crying oneself to sleep, I present to you...

The End Of The Demolition And Subsequent Renovations.

(Oh Good God, I Just Jinxed It Again.)

Let's start with the rec room; formerly a kitchen, then P.J.'s BFF's storage unit, then a nice petri dish for water damage/mold, then briefly a storage unit again, then the site of Huge Honkin' TrenchFest '12...

Oh, shucks, you mean you hafta take up ALL
of the Miami hotel circa 1960s tile? Okay.

We had them take out the counters/falling-down cabinetry as
well, because...well...they were janky and the demo team looked bored.

Goodness me, that's a stunning pair of non-lethal ceiling fans! And that
flooring looks positively mold-free! Is this the Ritz Carlton?

Did I mention that P.J. Ikea-hacked his way through the building
of two awesomesauce built-in bookshelf units? At the rate I keep renewing my vows to this shockingly talented man, he'll NEVER be free of me!

Same room, opposite view. And what a view it is!

Yes, I realize we ran out of furniture. I can fix that. For now, marvel
at the recycled composite wood-grain hippie porcelain tiles! (And non-
broken walls. Feast your eyes. Nary a trench.)

And who can forget the joy that is my laundry room? We've got a tool chest. We have two power drills. We briefly had a washing machine that exploded blanket.

I was actually thrilled when they
found a broken pipe in here and had to gut the room. 

That sure is a cleaner floor! And...are those walls painted?

And P.J.'s office- that poor guy. All he wanted was a place to quietly catalog his music, strum a ukulele, and mainline war epics on Netflix...but no. This room was Gut City, too.

All of the large pieces of furniture lived in P.J.'s office until
roughly an hour before the project wrapped up.

Now that's a guest room/office worthy of people visiting/
work being done at a desk! (Also, this is not what it looks
like when P.J. is working. Not at ALL.)

And one final pic from the floor of P.J.'s office...I present to you:

Girl With Mostly Finished Lower Level (Except For A Few More Storage Boxes).

It's gonna be a bestseller.