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.

Wynken And Blynken And Nod.

Even when things get awful and messy and smelly and chaotic, it never fails to amaze me that the simple act of watching these two dynamos nap can make everything seem a teensy bit sweeter.

(Still messy. Just nicer to look at.)

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!