The Big Reveal! Kinda!

Now, for your voyeuristic/cautionary tale approval, I give you: 

Two Of The Five Gutted Rooms, All [We Hope] Done. (Forever And Ever, Amen.)

Shall we jaunt back down the stinky, depressing, covered-in-tears Memory Lane? (Please forgive the iPhone photos. Why yes, I do have a camera so advanced it could land a jet...but I think it's in storage. So, no flash it is!)

First, the bathroom.

The cesspool that started it all. Good God, that thing
looks like the beginning of a horror film.

The bathroom, all torn to shreds. Please note, however,
that the toilet paper stayed intact throughout. WHY?!

The beginning of the end [of the walls].

New floor! And some sorta prep work for the walls. That took
3 weeks. (You really don't wanna rush these things.)

But- oh my stars- what a shiny new bathroom! (If you disregard
the janky blinds! Which we clearly did!)

Someone is happy with her new mirror/
sconces/shower tile. Okay, it's me.

Now, the family room!

Old family room, looking towards the hall and
stairs. Not pictured: a Precious Moments fan pull.
Very pictured: Miami hotel tile, circa 1963.

Same view, but new wood-grain porcelain tile!
And new Buckwheat Flour (?) walls!

Aaand, full of our stuff again.

Same room, to the lefthand side.
Nora refuses to leave this room.

Old view of the family room, looking out onto the street.
Sweet bell peppers, that floor was awful.

New floor! New walls! New- hey wait, why did the
contractors put ALL of our stuff on that couch?

Ah, that's better. Nice and jammy-packedy.
And it's not dark at all- in fact, it's so bright that my
iPhone cam couldn't handle its luminescence. 

Stay tuned for rooms 3 through 5! Nora won't be in those pictures, however. She's not moving from the train table.

Because you never know.

Don't Tell My House, My Broken, Broken House.

I can't look, either.

I was going to post pictures today of the finished lower level.

That's right. I had intended to post those, because- finally- the downstairs rooms, bathroom, and laundry room were one thousand and two percent completed.

However.

Being as today is the six week anniversary of the day that the sewer pipe collapsed/the bottom half of the house got torn down to the studs, you know that this project ain't going down without a fight.

We had overcome the nearconstantjackhammering. The sticky concrete dust that caused me to scrub like Lady MacBeth. The staggering crush of people stomping through the house from 7am to 7pm; plumbers, contractors, foremen, insurance agents, dudes walking in just to use the phone- I have no idea who all of those people were.

But we persevered.

And when the initial go 'round at fixing the sewer pipe went [surprisingly] bust, we tolerated the extra weeks being tacked onto the project. Even when the upstairs [completely unrelated] bathroom went kaput, we laughed. (Sorta.) Sure, I sobbed when the washing machine exploded straight up to the newly painted ceiling, but I don't think anyone could've blamed me for that one.

Six weeks of screaming children, filthy everything, displaced possessions, and an impressively delayed manuscript failed to break me.

But the other day? When the walls were freshly painted, the baseboards neatly tacked into place, and the bathroom furnishings gleaming like a spa? When, just as the workers were about to finish up for the day, for the week, for the ever- when they cut into our security system line and caused it to go into panic mode?

I felt myself crumble just the teensiest bit.

So then the ADT guy showed up and was all like- Yep, this sure is a line that's been cut. But he fixed it. No problem.

But then he went home. And so did the workers. And the security system started to fritz out again. No one was sure what it was, but everyone agreed on one thing: the baseboards needed to be taken down again. Not a huge deal, especially since it had also been recently discovered that the cable line, also secured under its own honking baseboard, WAS ALSO FAILING TO WORK.

I am not ashamed in the least to admit that, while watching our contractor tear baseboards off of the wall again, I cried like a little girl not allowed on the ride.

The scriiiitching thwack of each panel tearing off a little of the blue Durarock underneath it, hearing each baseboard clatter onto the recently cleaned and cleared tile floor...it was all just a little too much.

I had been teased with the end. But I am a fool. For there is no end.

And when they discovered the problem, a nail through the center of the wire (of course!), I wasn't surprised.

I asked for a turn with the nail gun, but I wasn't surprised.

It's The Little Things.

As we close out week five of "The Project," it's pictures like this that keep me going:

Yuv.

This one doesn't hurt, either:

90% finished laundry room. (Yuv.)

Full Disclosure: I Am Not A Contractor.

I'm with you, kid.

There are many things that I just know:
-The vocal lineup of most classic rock bands since 1972.
-An innate awareness of when a ladybug sticker is being placed on an item of good furniture.
-How to fall asleep on any surface despite exterior influences.

And then there are things for which I fall woefully short:
-Being able to relax/move on with my life when things are out of order.
-Apologizing first.
-And anything having to do with the putting-back-together of my house.

That last one has become painfully clear during this past month. I have been asked- nay, expected to answer questions [correctly] about the how/when/why of my home's implosion. Why was this house built on a cesspool? (Cheaper real estate.) Where's the shut off valve for the mitochondrial rotator cuff? (That isn't a thing.) Does this pipe run up to the third floor/were you insane for buying a short sale? (Yup.)

And I kept it together (kinda) for the first few weeks. But now we're in the home[ish] stretch. And there are choices to be made. Shower tile. Floor tile. Faucets- with correct backings. (Did you know that they let you buy incorrect backings? They totally do.) A sink. Laundry room tile. Lighting that works with the wall spacing. A mirror that's wide enough for the vanity- but not that wide. (That's too wide.) Paint paint paint paint paint.

I thought I'd be good at this. I am not. We fell in love with the first sink/vanity we found. (In LOVE, I tell you!) But then it went out of stock. So we ordered the bigger size. But it was waaaay too big. So we found one that was- nice. It would do. Then I chose some backsplash tile that was clearly the best tile ever: tan and cream and white glass bubbles on a neutral background. But (as P.J. can probably tell you), I have expensive taste. That shower would end up being more expensive than my wedding gown. (By about fifty bucks.) So I decided on a mosaic glass in Moroccan colors. Which was the wrong absorbency level for a shower. (Would be great in a kitchen, I was told. Sadly/happily, we are not gutting the kitchen just yet.) I picked a third tile in brown glass- which, again, was not the right level of water resistance. (Clearly, I was meant for designing kitchens.) I finally ended up at a tile warehouse one night, pointing at a floor display and asking if that one would work. (It wouldn't. But they could find something close.) And that what's being installed today. The "close" one that "would work." (It'll be lovely.)

Picking out tile that would work a) in a family room, b) over radiant heating, and c) wouldn't cost more than my college education was next. We chose wood-grain tiles made of recycled materials and porcelain that would look kind of unassuming yet warm. (I should write ad copy.) There was a pricing war between our contractors and the flooring guys- of which there were no survivors. (The flooring guys didn't seem too interested in my business, however, as they actually shut the lights off on me and almost locked me in. "Oh hey- we didn't see you in our store for the last forty-five minutes.) I'm pretty sure it was a front for something illegal. A front with really nice flooring options, but still. The color and width of my choice changed about five times- and not because I had any sort of crazy stake in it. I originally chose teak. But that one "wouldn't work." So oak was installed yesterday. (It'll be lovely.)

I had to choose how I wanted the tiles spaced. ("Like...that.Yes. That's how I'd like it. Leave them there. Now everyone go home.") "Is 3/16th of an inch okay between planks?" ("For sure. That's how I always do it, anyway.") "Which grout would work- this one or this one?" ("Whichever grout will make me the least aware that I'm looking at grout. Sure. That one. I simply love it.")

Then I got a call last night telling me that the grout I wanted wasn't going to work. Now, there are many things that "I want," but grout doesn't even crack the top twenty. So we went with the other one.

The paint colors I had chosen were no longer available. The floor isn't level enough for these types of planks. You shouldn't be wearing patterned pants with those hips.

It feels like every single tiny detail that I have to decide upon is inevitably the wrong one. Every hardware and decorating choice I've made in the past few weeks has inevitably been scrapped. Because here's the thing: I have no idea what I'm doing.

It's like I'm expected to solve an Encyclopedia Brown mystery without knowing how many Tigers were actually at the baseball game. I simply don't have all of the information.

But it'll be okay. Eventually everything will be done and everyone will be out of our house. The girls will regain another level of the home in which to fling their toys and I'll be able to flop onto pleasantly grouted tiles while waiting for the third load of laundry to cycle through. Lights will turn off and on, painted walls won't show a trace of uneven plaster, and there won't be even a whiff of sewer gas anywhere on the premises.

It'll be lovely.

Broken House Still Broken.

See? The crumbling stoop loves me!

I was extremely ready for the weekend. This is largely in part because I love weekends, but even more largely in part (how many parts am I allowed?) because the house broke even further on Thursday night.

P.J., having ventured downstairs after work to, you know, inspect the demolition team's work- because boys simply HAVE to poke the drywall, ask about the coils, and guess how many RBIs it gets. (I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore.) I'm glad he did, however, since he found that the newly exposed area behind the sink and toilet was experiencing- what we call in the business- A LEAK. From the ceiling. That's right, a leak was coming from the bathroom directly on top of the broken bathroom. An area which (aside from a couple weeks prior's unsecured bathroom sink) was generally a top notch room in our house. In fact, it was the newest. Which, sadly, was a mammoth selling point back in '09. ("A new bathroom? What, is this the Hilton?")

Also, it was discovered that the upstairs bath had been placed in the floor by cutting through support beams. (I cannot even expand upon this further, it hurts my face too much.)

So, we called the plumbers back. (At this point, I'm pretty sure they're just living in our alley waiting for the bat signal to come back and fix our place. The gushing water symbol? Perhaps a teardrop?) They arrived the next morning- just as our renovation team showed up to finish up the bathroom's walls. (Definitely a teardrop.) And, being Contractor Guys, they disagreed on certain issues with each others' work. The tile, drywall, and electrical guys tried to work around the plumbers as they went up and down all three levels, flushing toilets, filling and draining sinks, and running showers- all to find out which thing had most recently failed us.

On a positive note, the contractors finally found some common ground. The water continuing to spill from the upstairs was pinpointed to the main floor toilet, eliciting a unanimous- "That ain't good!"

One of our plumbers lifted the toilet to find that it was never secured to anything, ever. It might as well have been a bathroom chair. No bolts. In fact, the reason for the leak was because the toilet had been placed at a slight angle ON TOP OF THE OLD TILE FLOOR. The lower level's jackhammering had cracked the tenuous wax seal and whoosh, Leak City. The previous owners hadn't felt like ripping up the floor, you see, and had only made minor attempts to cut the new tile around the askew toilet. Under the toilet was a substance that we're gonna go ahead and call mud. And water was everywhere. There was a risk of dry rot on these floors, as this problem had apparently been going on for awhile.

"You might have to take this bathroom down to the studs, too," we were informed. "Don't use this bathroom for 24 hours while it dries out." (So that's two bathrooms down. We are very quickly running out of real estate in this place.)

While this was happening, I was fielding questions from the downstairs crew (and running outside to circumvent the plastic sheeting still on the stairwell), and sprinting back up to point out things at the request of the plumbers. While carrying Nora and Susannah. Because it was quickly becoming another riddle of whom to carry on each trip; the chicken, the wolf, or the bag of grain. (Still with me?)

There were easily fifteen people in the house. Jackhammering and chiseling from the downstairs, thunking and clanking from the upstairs (and yells to each other along the way: "Still got water coming down?" "Oh yeah!") And a thoroughly freaked out Nora- who responded by "accidentally" head-butting Zuzu with the full force of her body. And that resulted in tears from just about everybody.

Nora eventually crumpled to the couch with a wailed "There are too many people SEEING me right now!" Which I totally sympathized with, but which didn't quite rank as high as another failing level of our home or her baby sister's potential concussion.

Anyway. That day eventually ended. And I still consider it a check in the positive category for a few simple reasons:
-Our general contractor goes above and beyond. (And has not yet blocked my phone number.)
-Our plumbers have stopped charging us for "minor" repairs to our house. Pity? Whatever.
-My mother-in-law sent stargazer lilies and roses, with a [hilariously misinterpreted] note hoping that "the proyeet" was going well.
-My mother is on speed dial- and also has yet to block my phone number.
-And, on a walk that night, we let Nora "convince" us to stop at the ice cream truck.

This weekend was also an A plus: cards and photographs and brunch and pre-prepared coffee and two(!) naps and more walks and even a few moments where we all forgot that we lived in a funhouse. It was reaffirmed that the world's most perfect gift is a handmade card from one's offspring. Always thought my folks were just being kind on that one. But nope- having a hand-scrawled smiley face (with legs!) on a card more than makes all this stuff worth it.

And the naps. The naps are good, too.

The Dirtying Machine.

I am airing my dirty laundry.

Right now, an entire floor of stuff has been absorbed by the other parts of the house. Like a sponge. Like a big, bloated, no-more-room-for-knick-knacks sponge. 

And by "knick knacks," I mean wool coats. Books n' books n' books n' books. Upended tables. At least two cats.

We're like the beginning of a Hoarders episode- with no hope for an hour-long resolution. 

The guys currently digging up the lower level were sweet enough to warn me that there might be dust. And a lot of noise. Which is just adorable. 

And in We've Really Angered This House news...

We've really angered this house. Part 17:

The other day, feeling way too confident about my abilities to keep this house running smoothly and (relatively) cleanly, I decided to do a load of laundry. The contractors had worked a half day and the afternoon was looking open. After I cleaned some clothes, I figured I'd take the girls to the actual out-of-doors when they woke up from their naps. I was thrilled by the prospect of potential freedom. 

While the washing machine was starting its cycle, I began the process of re-packing and moving stuff from floor to floor for phase 2 of the demolition. After about ten minutes, however, I heard...something. 

It sounded like a geyser. And being that my home is not currently on the register of any sort of national wonder (yet), I fervently hoped that what I was hearing was not a geyser.

As I turned the corner into the laundry room, I sorrowfully discovered that- yes- it was a geyser. Water and lint and mud shot straight from the washer, splashing the ceiling and shelves and floor. And me. Especially me. 

I am totally embarrassed to say that I stood there for fifteen seconds, just wondering what the heck to do. Count fifteen seconds in your head. That's a stupidly long time for inaction. Finally I ran into the melee and popped the washer button out. It stopped, and for a second all I could hear was the drip drip drip of pooling water and failed dreams.

Once I felt brave enough to open the lid, I discovered what had happened- sorta. The blanket which had, only the day before, been sequestering one floor from the concrete dust and sewer gas of the lower level, had completely disintegrated in the wash. Like, down to its atoms. I have no idea how this happened, since (generally) blankets don't just explode. However, since it did happen, it meant waaaay more work for that afternoon.

There was the half hour of fishing out fistfuls of gritty lint from within the murky washer in order to properly drain the machine. Same goes for the utility sink, into which the lint-laden hose had been attempting to spill. Then there was the hour long session of hand-washing each item of clothing to remove the lint and gritty residue (which, as it turns out, was the inner layer of the blanket) that was already staining the clothes- most of them Susannah's. 

It was an ugly, pathetic, process- which may not have resulted in actually clean clothing. During this time I had a [momentary] mammoth snap with reality, whereupon I began to yell at the house.

I yelled at the potential ghost.

I berated the previous owners. 

I [loudly] assured everyone involved that I was a good person and I was trying to treat this &$#@* house with respect and my baby kid did NOT deserve pajamas covered with mud and broken blanket.

I like to think that the house and I came to an understanding. 

As in- I understand that this house has really been a jerk to me and it understands that (being a house), it holds no actual responsibility for my happiness. 

It's a start.

Looks clean enough to me!

Forget The Girls- I'M Going To Trade School.

ALL the furniture must be moved. All.

Sometimes I feel like I'm hosting a contractor convention- and I'm the keynote speaker as well as the janitor.

On Friday afternoon, we had our heating and cooling guys out yet again. "But Keely," you ask. "Didn't you just pay close to 4k for an a brand new a/c system?" Yup. Yes, we did. "And Keely," you insist. "Didn't they leave the job with only one floor cooled, completely undermining the crux of the project, which was to get non-polluted air into your infant's room, the one on the first floor?" Yes, but we'll leave that alone for now.

Last week we had one night that was in the upper 80s. And, being that the two larger bedrooms are in what is essentially a converted attic, 'twas boiling. We were excited(ish) to use our new a/c. And that jubilation lasted until hour six of having the system on. Because, even after six hours of "cooling," the thermostat read 86 degrees.

THAT'S NOT RIGHT, we said to ourselves. WE'VE SPENT WAAAAAY TOO MUCH MONEY FOR 86 DEGREES. 

So our guys came out. And found that the compressor was completely devoid of freon. Because there was a leak somewhere in the 3-week old system. AND THAT'S NOT GOOD.

It was found within an hour and easily [?] patched. The guy was slightly shocked at how sloppy one of the connectors was. I wasn't. If you'll recall, the a/c guy left our home a few weeks ago after telling me how much he hated our house. (I mean, I hate our house, too, but I rarely let it affect the job.)

And lest you think that, just because the plumbers have finished their two-week downstairs pilgrimage, the work is DONE...oh no. Because yesterday, right around the time we were playing Whole House Jenga in preparation of the renovation, we discovered a leak. In the tub. You know, the tub that wasn't part of this demolition? And in the under-stair crawlspace (where we were attempting to Tetris some more storage boxes), we found that the newly dug and re-cemented concrete was wet. Whether from the extreme rain yesterday or someone's tears, I cared not. Because it meant that the plumbers had to come back today. The day that the renovators were to have started.

There's really only one explanation: Ghosts.

Back when I was hugely pregnant with Nora and we were "fixing up" this place (hahahahahaha), I could swear that I felt someone behind me all the time. Then it stopped. Or maybe I was too tired with a newborn to care if someone was stomping about upstairs. But now? Maybe the previous owner is pissed that we're digging up his house. Or perhaps he's the one causing the splodey-ness.

It's honestly the only rational cause for this ruckus.

Have you ever had ghosts/a slum for a house? Do you have a drink for me? Doesn't having these questions in bold remind you of Encyclopedia Brown endings? Comment below. 

Or walk over with a drink. I'm not picky. (Clearly.)

Keely Jinxes Herself Into Oblivion.

That frog takes up so much real estate.

Things are starting to look up. (And not just because we're crammed into the top floor of our house.)

Yesterday I featured a [poorly lit] photo array of my new window seat. It's simply glorious. It marks one of the few occasions where we've added something to this home because it would look nice or because it is time to no longer look like a crack den. (More like a crack palace!)

So often we're renovating and fixing the house because of "structural issues" or "safety reasons."

But on Tuesday? We hired people to come and rip out the front of our house (not to be confused with the people we've hired to come and rip out the downstairs of our house) because we've [I've] decided it was high time to have something pretty happen here. Granted, we [I] made this decision well before SewageGate 2012...but since we had already paid the deposit, new window it is!

There were a few dark moments on Tuesday, however. For starters, since the plumbers had taped plastic sheeting up the stairwell from the lower level (and over the side door), and since the window guys had done the same to the front door and living room- we were trapped inside a plastic rectangle.

I do not, as a rule, thrive under conditions best described as Outbreak-esque.

The jackhammering and drilling coming from ALL SIDES was a bit...much. Susannah's cheeks, yet again, threatened to vibrate off of her face. Nora, at one point, screamed until she was purple- and I couldn't even hear her.

And, at one point, the lower level's plastic sheeting slipped- and in an instant, the entirety of the main floor was coated in a thick layer of concrete dust. The biggest casualty was the enormous vat of stewed pears and apples that I had cooked for Suzy's consumption this week. (Now she may actually have consumption. Awesome.)

But- and this cannot be stated enough- THE WINDOW IS AWESOME.

This is the window where I (miraculously showered and all) shall sit and read and have a drink and take a nap and not smell sewage and not have to explain- yet again- that the men were not done jackhammering.

Because they will be done. The jackhammering has to stop. (After awhile it's just, like, dirt. Right?) And when this noise and mayhem and filth ceases...I will be on my window seat.

That is, if I can convince Nora to lemme have a turn.

Something Actually Works!

Please pardon the complete and utter lack of artistry in these photos- they're too dark, and they barely show what I'm trying to convey. BUT. Here's the thing. After weeks of things falling down, we have something new. Something awesome. And it's a bay window with a wide seat board. 

And it is good.

Old window in dim light. Note: janky/creaky wooden windows,
various scratches, three layers of ill-placed caulking.

NEW window in dim lighting. Note: HOW AWESOME IT IS.

Old front of house. Notice: good God, remember when that top window
 was shot out? We bought a house that had been SHOT AT?

New bay window. Also, no more shot-out window.
(And who's that mini person in two of these pix?)

Keely Comes Unhinged.

At least SOMEONE'S sleeping like a baby.

This house has turned me into a Nervous Nellie and a Doubting Thomas.

Whenever something new is opened up (the floor, a pipe, a line of credit), I fully expect that something "surprising" will happen. A rat's nest will be exposed. We'll all discover that there is actually no "foundation" to this place. Little things like that.

And when people estimate that a job will take two days ("three days, tops"), I no longer believe them. Besides, if each person lining up for their turn takes the allotted two/three days, I'm pretty sure we'll be playing Contractor-Go-Round well into the girls' adulthood. Because I do not believe that this home will ever be done with exploding on us.

"Homes are never really done," Experienced Homeowners frequently tell me. And I realize this. But I'm pretty sure relative "doneness" doesn't usually equate with major house catastrophes.

And I no longer want to be the Blue Ribbon standard for worst home ever. It sorta hurts the morale, you know?

We had a really nice weekend with P.J.'s sister, niece, and parents for Katy's 11th birthday. It was actually pretty terrific to get to take the weekend "off" from sporadically mopping/moving/sobbing and get to play tour guide. I did feel pretty awful, however, about the fact that our home stunk like an outhouse and the downstairs bathroom may as well have had crime scene tape across it. (I swear I am a decent wife to your boy, Schoenies.)

The jackhammering currently shaking my computer (and Susannah's chubby cheeks- sorry, Zuzu) punctuates the fact that my brain is full of irrational little marbles. It could also be the lack of sleep, however. I keep falling asleep only to wake up each hour with those annoying little half-awake nightmares.

Susannah fell down under the house in one.

Nora was covered in sewage in another.

The cats were- inexplicably- on the ceiling, making it all too Trainspotting-y for me.

In each scenario, I am completely unable to save anyone or help anything. And it doesn't take Freud to dissect the anxieties behind these dreams- but it does make for an exhausted next day. And when I'm tired, I cry. And when I cry, contractors feel UNCOMFORTABLE. And then I stay up late feeling anxious about how I'm stressing out the contractors. It's a vicious cycle.

But- to the best of my knowledge- this is not the end of the world. Sure, a huge chunk of my house no longer exists, but the girls are healthy. (Covered in concrete dust and breathing in methane, but healthy as smallish horses.) So far, our insurance has decided to play nicely with the whopping costs that keep piling on. And P.J. has not yet left me.

It could be a lot worse.

It could smell a lot better, but it could be a lot worse.

Duct Tape House, Part- Oh, I Give Up.

I'd leave, if my shoes weren't filled with Little People.

Remember how, way back on Monday, I realized that I had taunted fate by posting about the hilarity of the previous Thursday's bodily fluid debacle? Well, I got my comeuppance once again by continuing to post about said fluids- this time in the form of a sewer explosion.

And I'm going to do it again, simply by referencing last Monday's travails. I'm totally like a kid who keeps pushing an irate parent into more and more groundings.

"Wanna make it two weeks?"

"Great."

"Fine, three weeks."

"Terrific."

The plumbers came early yesterday morning to check their work- which, up to this point, had consisted of fixing numerous pipes, filling in a cesspool, and pouring concrete all over the lower level of our house. Basically, today they were going to run a smoke test and make sure that no smoke escaped into our home- meaning, of course, that our pipes possessed zero holes from which smoke could travel.

When they arrived, we greeted them with some unfortunate news. From the time they left the night before until that a.m., we had run the dishwasher and done a few loads of laundry, and a horrific smell not unlike rotten eggs being shoved into your nostrils was filling the entirety of the house. That's right, whereupon before any of this work had been done the smell had been confined to the lower level, now it was permeating the entire abode.

The plumbers were pretty sure what the smoke test was gonna show them. And they were right! Since the four major gaps in the pipes had been fixed, that freed up the rest of the pinprick holes in the pipes to step it up and truly shine. (In the form of breaking open completely.)

I asked one of the plumbers if it was the worst he'd ever seen.

"No way," he said. "Top three, though. Definitely. God, this is bad."

And the insurance check which we had oh-so-recently been [tentatively] approved for? That whole "complete renovation of a bathroom" and "majority of the plumbing work" check? Yeah, that's getting scrapped for now, as we all recalculate how much it'll cost to take the bathroom down to the studs, re-line the entirety of the sewer pipeline, and gut the majority of the lower level's flooring and walls.

Nora saw me cry. The plumber saw me cry. Heck, the guy driving the Speedy Express van and dropping off a package from Amazon.com saw me cry.

Did I mention that we have guests coming this afternoon and staying until Monday?

Before the plumbers left yesterday, they headed into our main floor bathroom for a quick de-clogging of the sink- something which was "a cinch" to do (and something which I'm pretty sure they're no longer charging us for at this point). And there was a clog, all right, but the majority of the problem likely stemmed from the fact that the pipe leading from the sink HAD NEVER BEEN GLUED INTO THE DAMN WALL. Just hanging out. A free agent, if you will. So they glued a new one into place, since- hadn't you guessed?- the previously unglued one had also completely rotted out.

The plumbers joked that they'd have to rip out the wall and see about all of these pipes. Ha HA. Plumbers are hilarious.

And last night was spent cleaning literally inches of concrete dust off of things on every floor. Thick, sticky debris required multiple dustings and even more go-rounds with the mop. And it's still filthy. And really, really smelly.

P.J. saw me cry. The cats saw me cry. My woefully low bottle of Peppermint Schnapps saw me cry.

A completely hypothetical question to all homeowners: Was there a point in your homeownership where you realized that you would never recoup your money spent? Was it within the first three years?

Just asking.

Keely's House Continues To Fall Apart.

The pit...of despair...

Apparently I keyed into something cosmic on Thursday. Either that, or I taunted fate something awful with my tales o' bodily fluids.

Because the very next day our sewer pipe collapsed.

Thankfully, we [now] have a very good plumber. (For those of you playing along at home, yes we have collected plumbers like little kids collect...whatever the heck it is that kids collect these days. Jacks? Worry dolls? I have no idea.) The plumbers are called The Scottish Plumber (actual tagline: "The pipes, the pipes are calling." Peej may not think that's the reason we went with them, but he'd be wrong.)

They came immediately on Thursday morning and did a swell job of instantaneously pointing out [at least] four places where our home is broken. Like under the laundry room. The Harry Potter storage closet. The playroom wall. The entirety of the bathroom. Because not only did the sewer line give out, but in doing so, it helpfully pointed out other areas that were less than "airtight."

In fact, when the plumbers jackhammered up all of the ceramic tile and concrete in the bathroom, they discovered an actual cesspool beneath the toilet. There was evidence of animal activity that shall not be mentioned ever again. And there was room for at least four bodies. You know how there's supposed to be pipes and concrete and very little to no space at all between things under any given house? There was NOTHING but space. It was like opening a door into a swirling vortex. Like in Ghostbusters. But way stankier.

The jackhammering also had the effect of covering every inch of our home with multiple layers of dirt and dust. There was a moment where I felt like an actual resident of Pompeii. And by Friday night I had mopped every square inch of [non-destroyed] space TWICE. And Nora still slipped on a dusty stair.

The lower level of our home is, well, to quote a James Taylor song: "Tore up, and tore up good." This is the floor that, besides the bathroom, laundry, and playroom, houses the guest room/P.J.'s office, and that random room (which had previously been hosting Mold-O-Rama 2011- and is now so fresh and so clean clean with new drywall and paint...just in time to potentially get ripped up again).

We have no TV.

There is limited access to Nora and Zuzu's toys, some of which I grabbed and stacked in the living room. And, if you'll recall, the living room is perhaps the only room in the house where we don't have bibs and diapers and miniature cars strewn around. (Except for this week!)

And did I mention that we've got people coming for a long weekend on Thursday? We've got people coming for a long weekend on Thursday! Maybe I'll set up a tent in the backyard. (For myself.)

Over the weekend, we were allowed to run hot water but had no access to the laundry (oh, darn), but the steam from the hot water made the smells more smelly. And since the only thing separating us from raw sewage were gaping holes that had been covered in plywood, they weren't awfully effective at containing THE WORST SMELL THAT HAS EVER BEEN IN MY NOSE, EVER.

And this afternoon I get to meet with an insurance adjuster (who has already attempted to dissuade us from filing a claim on the grounds that, whether or not we get a payout, our rates will definitely go up). Hopefully she will see that the work being done is not "cosmetic," nor is it something I've done to the house.

I'm pretty sure that, were I a swarm of frothing demons being chased by locusts, I would not have been able to inflict this kind of damage to my own abode.

I bet it would smell better, though.

Indoor Air Is Highly Overrated.

"This house is made of Scotch tape and failed dreams."
"I know."

This coming July, we'll have lived in this house for three years. Three years. During that time, we've ripped off a roof, dragged in appliances, patched and painted and edged and secured, replaced windows (and replaced windows and replaced windows), had the electrical system rewired, wiped out mold (and redid drywall and painted and edged and secured), made it clear that rats are NOT WELCOME, and finished a host of other things that I've most likely blocked out due to post traumatic stress.

We also had a kid. And then another kid.

For the past few months, Peej and I have been deciding how to next fix this house with the [frighteningly small] amount of money we've socked away into our Good Lord, This House fund. Excitingly enough, we realized that we could maybe afford the down payments on something cosmetic or purely awesome. Like air conditioning for the whole house.

This impending luxury may have been etched into P.J.'s mind since the previous summer when, hugely pregnant with Susannah, he (repeatedly) found me hunched over our window unit and weeping fat, hot, Ugly Tears.

We had multiple contractors come out and quote the job, but we went with the company that promised exactly the results that we wanted, NO PROBLEM. I had no time for the menfolk who suggested that perhaps our Wikki Stix abode wouldn't be able to support the type of system we wanted. Wall-mounted units? Do we look like a Motel 6? (Don't answer that.)

So they came on Thursday with a crew of four and proceeded to open up the completely access-free crawlspace above the third floor bedrooms. ("To take a look-see!") Turns out, there was no room for the necessary vents to supply air down to Zuzu's room and that whole floor. There was barely room for the haphazard piping and shenanigans going on up there in the first place. So, the upstairs bedrooms could get a/c, but no dice for poor Baby Girl. Which, annoyingly enough, had been the entire impetus for this project (my Ugly Tears notwithstanding)- actual air in the infant's bedroom. As it stands, Susannah's window opens out into the shared walkway between our home and the neighbor's 5-flat, which serves as a conduit for cheap cigarillo smoke and a melange of vomit and stale urine. (All three are produced by the same neighbor, isn't that magical?) Thusly, GIRL NEEDS AIR. (Also, aren't you dying to come stay at our house, now?)

It took until 10pm that night for the crew to secure some semblance of forced air through our new furnace- did I mention that we had to buy a new furnace?- at which point the foreman announced that he kinda hated our house. "I mean, you guys are cool, but...if I never see this house again, it'll be too soon." Mazel tov! Can I offer you some more warm bottled water?

And I'm currently awaiting quotes/grand apologetic gestures of price-slashing to finish the job. P.J. and I had the [genius] idea to cut a fireman's pole area into the master bedroom, thus getting the air into the baby's room, AND facilitating easier early morning Suzy-gettin'.

But apparently that's not a real thing.

Whatever, I've never let that stop me in the past. After all, we've lived in this make-believe house for three years, haven't we?

Weekends Aren't For The Weak.

Close-up of ugly door.
Close-up of blogger's old promo pic.

P.J. loves it when I start a new weekend project. No really, he just adores it. What's not to love? Go on, honey (he says), why on earth would I prefer to sit here and pound through episodes of Firefly? It would be much nicer (he agrees) to help you prep, clean, facilitate, and be the sounding board for all of your ideas and/or misplaced anger. And even though my preferred color and state is white paint/unadorned walls (he acknowledges), I can totally get on board with a Mayan red door and Cajun red walls. Since you've already begun.

I'll admit it. I blindsided him with this weekend's project. But the front foyer and door had been staring me in the face with their ugliness for close to three years. And we're not talking just outdated or just a state of disrepair.

It was both. A lot of both.

The foyer was a yellowish hue, punctuated with poorly sanded holes, poorly covered holes, and smears of pink handprinty-type things. (And/or faded bloodstain handprinty-type things. Nothing surprises me anymore.) The door was chipped, water-stained, and rather warped "original" wood residing in a chipped, rusted, brownish frame.

Super old pic of Nora.
Super discolored foyer. 

You know how, sometimes, things are so bizarrely ugly and impossible to deal with that your brain actually stops seeing them? That's the only way I can explain how this entry point into our home lasted like this for so long. (Unless you factor in exhaustion. And laziness.)

Well, the fog finally lifted on Saturday morning and I had to do something. So I ran to Home Depot. Bought new edgers, new paint (Mayan red for said door and Eurolinen for said foyer- the latter of which is just a fancy word for...cream.)

While there, I racked up a two hundred dollar bill for...absolutely indeterminate items, but that's an entirely different story. And issue. (And credit card.)

Once home, I realized that we were down to one sole paint roller. And my project would require [at least] two. This revelation- while potentially explosive- was tempered by P.J.'s cautious suggestion that we could make a run on the following day and just focus on the door for Saturday. Whatta guy.

So I sanded. And wood-filled. And scraped. (And removed Mayan Red paint from an eight-foot radius. Because I become positively Jackson Pollock-esque when I renovate.) I had literally no fear about turning the front door into an eye-catching thing of awesome...as opposed to its current life as an eye-catching time capsule from the 1970s [after some natural disaster had occurred].

And you know what? It looks awesome. There wasn't much I could do about the rather dated diamond shape window facing the street, but the door's new deep mahogany color at least says- Hey, we're trying.

I felt quite proud. Prouder still once I managed to finagle the doorknob and dead bolt back into place. Whimsical poll: Do you know what makes a doorknob incredibly difficult to secure? Previously stripped screws and/or painted hardware. COME ON, PEOPLE/PAST OWNERS. I AM NOT A MAGICIAN.

Close-up of door at night
(in incredibly poor lighting.)
No artistic blog awards, here.

The next day- once the paint rollers were secured- I began the spackling and sanding and priming and painting of the foyer. It was a time of discovery. For instance, I discovered that the wall underneath had previously been teal.

This part was really easy. In fact, at one point I proposed marriage to my paint edgers. (P.J. yelled from the other room- You can HAVE her!)

Then, I touched up the trim and baseboards with white paint. (See, P.J.? Compromise.) However, it's a slippery slope from painting the trim in one section and not letting it drag you all the way around the house. Because where in a home's identical trim do you stop and say, "Nope, this area can remain dingy even though it's attached to the other twelve feet of newly shiny baseboard?" But seriously, that conversation needs to happen, or else you're painting the staircase railing and adding another layer of tar to the roof.

But it was when I was wrapping up the foyer/door project when I noticed the interior door frame. Perhaps, even moreso than the previously ugly door, the rusty spikes by the doorknob would act as a Feng Shui deterrent. (Maybe also burglary?) So I sanded and painted and hammered down spikes. (It'll just take a sec, I told myself. And P.J. And Susannah, who had now been waiting for someone to just feed her since roughly 8am on Saturday morning.)

New door, new trim,
new walls, same ugly tile,
same crazy miniature person.

During this time I was kept company by my next door neighbor's attempt to sand a bike that may or may not have been his. The weather, however, was so warm and pleasant that I paid no heed to fact that the potentially hot ten-speed was being stripped of colors that may or may not signify a certain gang. And across the street, my neighbor blared an incredibly loud homemade mix tape that consisted solely of Linkin Park and Nickelback.

If nothing else, it really drove home that I needed to hurry up and finish this frickin' project.

So I did.

And, at the end of the day, the walls were one color, the trim didn't extend onto the hardwood floor, and the door actually latched. And locked. (Twice.)

You can't be too careful.

After all, there are Nickelback-lovers right across the street.

Non-Squalor Home: Check.

About a month ago, we had contractors come and quote us for a couple of projects around the house. Among them was an estimate to finish the downstairs room- what was once a second kitchen, and was now a very real eyesore/storage unit amalgamation of awesome.

They asked us what we wanted to do. We answered with the usual; new shelving, finished walls, maybe a new countertop, definitely a wet bar, perhaps a gas fireplace, a pool table, a craft table, an indoor swimming pool, and a good place for Jazzercise. We weren't picky. We got two quotes. One for 5k and the other for 8k. We scaled back our requests- okay, maybe just make it a liveable space? Still 5k and/or 8k.

Looks clean in this pic. It ain't.

Now, if you'll remember, this room has been a source of crazy since Day One. It was originally a lumber yard when we moved in- a place to build necessary things like doors, baseboards, and wooden spikes to stick in one's eye when full Homeowner Realization set in. Then it was an apartment storage unit for a good friend. (For a year.) Once all of that got cleared out, I carried all of the remaining building supplies out into the yard during an exceptionally long nap of Nora's. (Then I spent the next day tending to my sprained arms, legs, and face.) I scrubbed. I painted. I shelved. But it still looked dirty, grimy, and mostly unfinished.

Some of you will recall that, this past summer (whilst hugely pregnant), P.J., my sis Kate, and I undertook some minor demolition of a Formica island (which would be a good name for a slasher flick) and found...water damage, rot, and holes drilled directly into the [ugly] ceramic tile.

So we got an exceptionally good mold remediation/demolition team to dig out, eradicate, and repair. They did a great job. But, when they were done, we still had a half-painted, fully plastered room with loads of storage junk in it.

Pregnant gal. Water damaged
floor/wall.

That brings us to this weekend. And since 8k is way too much to spend on an auxiliary room in our home (and since spending 8k on any room would instantly make it The Nicest Room In Our Home), I decided to Get. It. Done. Myself. (A game which P.J. haaates.)

We donated a ton of, well, junk. Threw out bags n' bags. We sold some more. We Craigslisted a very comfy- but very much so on its last legs- easy chair...which, moments after we placed it out back was vandalized and stripped of all metal springs and supports by a marauding scrapper truck. (Darn you SCRAPPERS!!!) I scrubbed and scraped some more. Painted and edged and painted and edged. Pale spring green and white and pale spring green and white. Covered a teal window well with five coats of white paint. Decided that the bright green horizontal blinds in the small window would have to stay. Decided that the cracked vinyl of the picture window would have to stay. Decided that the ceramic tile styled after a Miami hotel from the 1970s would have to stay...for the entire level.

But the ugly, greasy, and chipped cabinets gracing an entire wall? The holdover from when this was a garden apartment's trashed kitchen, complete with broken, water-filled appliances (the only ones in the house upon our move-in)? Those, I could do. I painted and refaced and painted and refaced. (White and white and white and white.)

It felt good that I was reclaiming an area of this house from its former squalor.

It felt good that this room no longer incited me to vomit and/or cry.

The lighting does this pic NO favors,
but it's the same angle as the first pic. And
yes, there is fruit on the rug. Baby steps.

I kept going, painting a green Formica corner shelf. (Painting things white is my way of saying- there now, this never happened. Shh.) We hung up a vintage framed Volkswagen poster. An 8x10 of Peter Sellers. An 8x10 of Scott Bakula. ('Cause, if you'll remember, I know him. From this time period.) Shoved a papasan chair in the corner. Plugged in a lamp.

Now we have one really cozy little corner...and a gigantic, extremely clean, and extremely empty room.

Just perfect for putting down a Jazzercise mat.

Priorities.

This is the story of how one day- when things are wonderfully calm and simple- you suggest to your two year-old daughter that you bake something. Brownies, perhaps.

And how she then proceeds to tear apart the kitchen in excitement, looking for wooden spoons, looking for aprons, trying to eat through the cardboard box to see what color the sugar is, etc., etc., etc.

But then you turn on the oven. And, as the room becomes full- maybe overfull, even- of tools necessary (and completely unnecessary) for the act of baking brownies...you notice that the room is becoming full of something else as well.

Smoke.

Thick, black, puffy clouds of burnt toast smoke. Or, to be more accurate, burnt pizza crust smoke. From a section of pizza that had- somehow- fallen off of the frozen dinner from the previous night's meal and ended up incinerating itself way back against the broiler's flames.

So you turn on the oven's vent fan, the kitchen fans, and [inexplicably] the bathroom fan. The windows are opened. The doors are opened. Rags are waved uselessly.

And, through all of this Non Panicky Take Chargitude, the two year-old demands (politely at first) that You Promised We Would Make BrownieCookies.

And you explain (gently at first) that the kitchen is in very real danger of charring to a crisp and, since the brownie-cookin' needs to take place in the kitchen, First Things First.

But she does not jive with your "logic."

So she begins to have a full-on tantrum about the very real lack of baking happening in front of her face. And she proceeds to hit you with a wooden spoon.

And so then you drag the toddler to the Time Out chair- waving her smallish body at the smoke detectors along the way- and have a very timely discussion of Why We Do Not Hit and Why We Need PATIENCE, DAMMIT.

Meanwhile, the infant is sitting nicely in her bouncy seat and staring up, quite possibly preparing for a future epileptic seizure due entirely to a strobe light effect caused by poorly placed track lighting behind the ceiling fan.

But the smoke eventually clears.

And the toddler apologizes- especially when she sees it's Game On for brownies and not so much for fire extinguishers.

And you can fully admit- once you see the infant blinking normally, that is- that maybe you just experience the weirdest three minutes ever.

At least for that afternoon.

No Room For R. Kelly In THESE Closets.

You'll put this away over my
dead, fiberglassed body.

For all that I whine about my home, the place has a ridiculous amount of storage, closets, and crawlspaces. Ceiling fans that wouldn't decapitate someone six feet tall or over- no. Rooms with miniature doors- yes.

But every now and again, those spaces become crazypants crammed. So yesterday's Big Dig was tackling Susannah's closet, Nora's closet, and the gigantic crawlspace off of Nora's room.

I hear that some other tackling went on yesterday as well. Sports!

To start, I removed stuff that Nora had [slightly] outgrown...and walked most of them right down to Suzy's room. Because Nora, at age 2 years and 3 months, just outgrew a pile of 6-12 month onesies and shirts. I am not joking. And her sister, a worldly 4-month old, is totally ready for the 6-month gear.

They will be the same size by Fall.

Anyhow. Nora's closet was fairly easy, especially since I've kept it pretty darned organized since she was but a flutter in my tum (and her closet was festooned with maroon, teal, and eye-popping graffiti). There were a couple of details slowing down the train, however. One was that, since I was sorting a wide array of sizes of which to store, I needed a lot of separate piles. The second reason also influences the first reason; Nora really wanted to help.

There's no door on Nora's closet. This is, in part, because a) it's rather busted and painted red and white and leaning sideways in the garage, and b) Nora likes to play in her closet- things like Shoe Store and Dora the Explorer and Gypsy Pirate.

This made pulling things out even more difficult, as someone would see me remove some items from hangers and decide to pull down more items. In fact, all.

But eventually, I made my way to Susannah's room. Girl has an awesome closet, which is most likely due to happenstance construction on this house. (I know, I was surprised too.) They shoved a bedroom and closet right up by the foyer and enclosed a little space with glass block windows and crazy shelving. It gets fabulous sunlight- but is also positively Arctic this time of year.

Unfortunately, it's also the perfect size for suitcases, hanging bags, wayward hardware, and a few [ahem] Spring coats. It has also been known to host a travelling Gypsy Pirate.

So we gave Susannah back her closet. I cleared out toys that, to the best of my knowledge, didn't belong to anyone. I pulled out all of her newborn to 3-month clothing (yeah, maybe I cried a little, no big deal), and packaged it up into Baby Girl and Gender Neutral- although, let's be honest. The more I "put things aside for a boy," the more likely it is that we'll find ourselves with a third daughter down the road.

Those projects were decently easy to complete. The really hard part came when I had to sort everything into respective bins in the crawlspace...which is where I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. For two years, I'd been putting stuff away in bins as Nora outgrew them. Except, since she's rather small for her size, it would take forever for her to outgrow 3-6 month pants. Which would, nonetheless, be put away in her "1 year" bin. Because that was the bin I was putting away, now that she was "2 year." (But still wearing "1 year.") And, because of the generosity of past nanny families, grandmothers, cousins' hand-me-downs, and doting aunts (and honorary aunts), the girls' clothing storage boasts bins and bins for each age range. (It's like shopping each and every time. And, unless I'm sorting and feeling cross, I absolutely get the shivers over how incredibly cool it is that I will not need to buy my kids clothing until they are eight years of age.)

But, I got it all sorted during the girls' naptimes. I even found a box of stuff erroneously marked 3T that would kinda sorta work for Nora right now- including a ladybug raincoat and pajamas without holes in the toes. And yes, maybe I inhaled some fiberglass, and- definitely- Ender the cat jumped into a pile of blown-in insulation and caused me to freak out, brain myself on an attic beam, fall out of the crawlspace and onto some [noisy] bags, drag the cat down the stairwell to the kitchen, humiliate him with a sponge bath on his paws and head, and still feel good about the fact that no one had woken up, regardless of my PG-13 language.

So, in total:
-Three organized storage spaces.
-One bin of stuff to donate.
-One slightly traumatized cat.
-One whopper of a skull bruise.
-Zero F-bombs dropped.

I consider it a victory.

I'd Kill For That Nursery-Cleaning Mary Poppins Scene.

Stop trying to put away the baby.

I have an issue.

Rewind for a sec- I have many issues.

Okay, fast forward back to where we were: I have one specific issue of which I shall expound upon today.

I get overwhelmed easily. And when my level of whelm is through the roof, I become less than pleasant to live with.

Take my house, for instance. (Please.) There are very few people who have not heard me whine about keeping this warehouse o' toys clean. And I realize that, for the most part, a goodly deal of the possessions within this house are here at my request. Or at the request of people that I have directly created. (Peej, for his part, owns a tattered knapsack full of Sega games and a glass baby mug.)

But I have never been able to work in a room that wasn't organized. When I was an Admissions intern at Hampshire College, I would rearrange office supplies. When home on break, I'd sort my Dad's CD collection- which I could see peripherally from the living room where I'd write papers. While working at my folks' restaurant, their kitchen would boast the neatest line of potato bins (unwashed, washed, chopped).

It's no different now, except that I work for two little girls who are a nice blend of whirling dervishes and gigantic Spin Arts. Holding ripped bags of cornflakes.

And while I've gotten quite good at writing in [unexpected] fifteen minute spurts on piles of laundry and willing myself to do projects with the girls without first mopping/dusting/organizing whatever room we're in, I kept thinking that there had to be a better way. And now I've found it. And it's embarrassingly [for me] simple and ridonkulously [for anyone, really] easy.

I plugged reminders into my phone.

Sure, things like dishes and laundry need to be done (and done and done and done) every day. Because miniature clothing expands to epic sizes in the washing machine. It just does. And every evening, without fail, Peej and I get to do the after-bedtime food, floor, toy, and surface bulldozer game. But now, once a day, I get a reminder for that day's weekly task. And sure, the bathrooms get dirty Every. Single. Day. But unless it's Wednesday (or unless something unmentionable happens), I don't have to stress about how dirty the bathrooms are, oh my GOD they're so dirty until the next time I get that reminder.

Okay, maybe this is coming off crazier in print. But the result is that, at the end of each day, the house is relatively in shape and won't make a visitor dirtier for being in any of the rooms. Which frees me up to actually enjoy being with my kids. And to not feel guilty about working on my book (which currently boasts a four page outline. Maybe I should organize that.)

I recently read an essay in Martha Stewart Living (and yeah, I set reminders to tear through old magazines as well- you laugh, but I'm finally reading 'em) about a woman and her quest for an organized life. I identified with many parts of it, but especially the section where she admitted that sometimes she swept toys away from her kids before they were fully done playing with them. (Guilty.)

I don't wanna be that way. But as much as I try to just Be In The Moment (and I do, I really, do), it's so flippin' nice when things are just roughly where they're supposed to go. I really crave order and folded shirts and markers that haven't lost caps and counters one thousand percent free of salmonella.

So far, this system has worked for about two weeks. Things look a tiny bit cleaner every evening- and morning. (I'm still so rotten at mornings. A dirty house in the morning can set me off for months.) And I'd like to say that, even more than a non-temper-tantrum-inducing home, this new method has yielded a gentler Keely.

Cue: P.J. waving a miniature pennant with Happy Wife emblazoned on it.

Now picture him waving it way harder.

Okay, P.J., that's enough.

Now We Can Buy MORE Stuff!

Peej is ashamed. Also, a good cleaner.

Yesterday, I began the process of diggin' out the homestead. (I initially entitled it The Big Dig, but I hear that's been taken...)

It's not that we're being bogged down by too much stuff (which, of course, we are- but that's not the problem), it's that we're being dragged down by the wrong stuff. Or, rather, the stuff we weren't even aware we still had.

I've been feeling this project coming for awhile. Mostly in recurring half-thoughts of- If The House Were On Fire , What- Besides The Babies And Cats- Would I Save?

The answer horrified me. For it was "everything." Also, I wasn't entirely certain what that "everything" still resided. Birth certificates, wedding albums, my leather Frye boots- sure. But what about things like my childhood Buppy blanket? I DID NOT WANT BUPPY TO BURN.

And while organizing our excessive thingitude wouldn't necessarily make it easier to save everything, it might just make it easier to file that ol' fire insurance report. (Boy, January makes some of us a little doomy, doesn't it?)

We began with the hall closet. Easy enough, right? Our goal: to actually offer hangers and/or coat space to visitors. (Perhaps we didn't need twelve coats apiece right at our fingertips. One thing about Chicago: the elements- usually- remain the elements for a goodly few months. There's probably time to swap out a lighter coat before the next heat wave.)

Gotta admit, that's a sweet corncob.

Here's what we found:
-Three separate BundleMe blankets for the strollers and car seat. Not including the one BundleMe actually in use by our single infant.
-A hat, gloves, and scarf set which P.J. fully admitted was "for company." (Listen, if someone visits wintertime Chicago without gloves, I'm not sure I want that brain trust working my stove, locks, or toilet.)
-A really nice Bebe coat that has never fit. It was a hand-me-down back around the time of our engagement. And if Twice Weekly Abs Class/South Beach Diet Keely couldn't shove her boobs into the jacket, Post-Baby Keely should kinda live in the now.
-A box of winter hats for Susannah- even though she keeps all of her winter gear in her room's ginormous closet. (I hadn't wanted her to feel under-represented in the hallway. Which looks even worse typed out than it sounded in my head.)

We got it down to a respectable number of coats per person (which I am not disclosing, lest you be judgey) and freed up room for actual people to place their actual outerwear.

Result: One bag for donation, One bag for trash.

We were so jazzed by this result that I promptly attacked the dining room. I knew that I had collected some junk alongside my treasures (and moved with them time and time again), but it was time to streamline the collections. I didn't think it would take more than an hour. But I should never underestimate the ability of back-of-hutch space to hold an improbable amount of stacked objects.

Blow out your candles, Laura.

Some highlights:
-Moldy cake candles. (Now, without pointing any fingers, someone's idea of "taking care of it" means "shoving them in a tupperware and putting a vase on top of them.)
-Wicker baskets. Lots.
-A corncob candlestick- which, admittedly- we LOVE.
-A gigantic crystal bowl heavy enough to snap our dining room table.
-An army of mismatched plastic forks. Hundreds of them. Why? WHY?
-An ugly handmade mug with an inspirational handwritten message. Not even by us. Or for us.
-Candle without wicks. Because, you know, I liked how the jar still smelled.
-Receipts. (I asked Peej how long one should keep a Dominos pizza receipt- he said three years, just to be on the safe side.)
-And the big one- every dried rose from every event and boyfriend, ever. (If you are a past boyfriend reading this, then yes, I have the rose from that formal dance that one time. And if you are my mother and wondering if I still have that flower from my confirmation- yup!) They were in glass jars and positively ugly vases. And I moved with these things. For close to twenty years. And, since my flower-pressing skillz were not what they should have been at age fourteen, some of these non-dried blossoms got a little moldy. That's right, I'VE BEEN PAYING MOVERS TO CART MY MOLD. Still, it was hard to just toss them. But it needed to be done. It was getting all Glass Menagerie up in there.

Once I removed the bio-hazard mask, I admitted that it felt good to let them all go. I told P.J. that I was fully ready to throw out ex-boyfriend flowers.

He asked if I was sure I'd given it enough time.

Final dining room tally: One large box (and smallish armload) of stuff to donate, one huge bag o' trash and one medium-sized bag of disintegrating petals (also trash.)

I'm not gonna lie- it feels amazing in that room, now. (Also the hall closet, but I haven't yet had the urge to stand in there.)

Can't wait to show it off with a dinner party where I use actual- and accessible- neatly stacked dishware.

Once the room loses the slightly funereal odor, that is.