May 31st, 2012
Jeez, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I need to get done around here.
No, this is not apropos of the recent argument. This has everything to do with me being bored with the way things are looking around here.
When we first moved in, I was all in my British Colonial frame of mind as far as furnishings went, and boy did I go out all out. I wanted a tropical theme. Okay, I wanted PLANTATION theme. Yes. There is irony there. I know.
In any case, I have moved on and am so DONE.
First was the bed. We had a FABULOUS 4-poster bed in our massive bedroom. Our bedroom is 425 square feet, which is bigger than some NYC apartments, bigger than many hotel rooms I’ve stayed in, and also about 1/3 of the house’s total square footage, which tells you how small the REST of the rooms are. And when we first moved in, the idea of this insane bedchamber from which I could peer down at my domain seemed…well, yes, ridiculous, but very medieval and lovely.
And it was. For a time.
Until I got pregnant.
Let me explain to you that this bed is so high off the floor that one must CLIMB into it. Literally. I finally purchased footstools to make getting into bed a bit less like taxing, but the heavier my stomach got, the less enthralled I was with the idea of hauling myself and my stomach into bed every night. Not to mention that, as Punksin grew bigger and pressed on my bladder, I needed to climb back DOWN several times a night. Climb UP…climb DOWN. Climb UP……..climb DOWN. Climb UP. Rest. No, no rest…climb back DOWN. Climb UP, stubbing my toe on the bloody poster on the way back to bed. Settle in. Fall asleep. Wake up 5 minutes later with urgent need to pee. Climb DOWN.
All of a sudden, this bed had taken on the persona of A ROYAL PAIN IN MY ASS.
But still, I kept it. The goddamn thing was a not easy to dismantle and we had more pressing concerns to deal with, so…up it stayed.
Then here we go again with Pudding.
Climb UP. Climb DOWN.
You know the drill.
And that lasted until one night when Pudding fell off the bed. Had this been a NORMAL bed, I would have been freaking out. But this was not a normal bed, this was fucking BASECAMP on Mount EVEREST, my 4-month old son was somehow, praise GOD, on his stomach looking up at me as if I were on the fucking MOON, and I was BEYOND HORRIFIED and ready to SHOOT THE BED. (Which would have made no sense whatsoever, but I would have felt better.)
THAT? THAT was EXACTLY when I was done with that fucking bed.
“Take it down,” I said to the Tech Guru.
Having had some back spasms of his own at various times that made getting into bed a gymnastic endeavor, I don’t think he minded.
But slowly, over time, I just got DONE with the whole colonial thing. I mean, really, the style is lovely and I do like it, but I don’t want to LIVE with it anymore. I’m done romanticizing it. Now I want something that is still tropical but modern, something comfortable yet sleek. Not sleek and spartan – I can’t do cold sterile interiors, but something inviting, cozy and airy all at the same time.
Which means a lot of repainting. A lot of redecorating. A lot of DIY.
Yet another reason I can’t wait for the kids to go to camp because I am hoping that within that period of time, I can get a few things done around here. My biggest projects are the ones I can’t do myself: redo the bathroom. The tiles in our bathtub were apparently applied by a 5-year old that didn’t understand shit about STRAIGHT LINES, so they are doing some weird concave thing in there that is awful. The only reason I have not taken a sledgehammer to the whole thing and started gutting it myself – and I HAVE read up on it extensively and do understand the process – is that I am afraid of what I will find In The Walls. Seriously. There are things that live In The Walls. Or even worse, they DIE…IN THE WALLS. If I get all Sarah Connor and haul ass with a sledgehammer only to find a dead mouse or something behind the backerboard, that shit is DONE. I can fight Terminators. Mousies? HELL no.
The only thing in there I would keep is the floor tile, but the wall tile has to go, I want a new toilet and sink, the bathtub can be reglazed by a pro. I can’t do all that shit. The Tech Guru could, and when we first moved in here he was all gung ho, but now he’s of the frame of mind that unless the people we pay to do it are charging more than he makes in an hour, he’d rather do his work. And that makes sense to me. If I can get that bathroom done this summer I will be on cloud 9.
The painting, I can do. The furniture, I can do. It’s just the bloody bathrooms.
Oh, and let us not forget the kitchen cabinets. Ugh. Just…ugh. Oh, and the floor in the sunroom. Laminate. DOUBLE UGH. Not even today’s laminate, some of which is actually presentable. We’re talking laminate from the 1980s. Just…EW. On all levels.
Oh! And the basement. Which the Tech Guru wants to turn into a man cave but I sort of want to be like a guest apartment. Not to rent out, but a place where guests can hang out, with a mini kitchen, TV, or where I can hang when I am doing laundry, which is like ALL THE TIME. When the Tech Guru lived in PA, he had an awesome basement. Why the fuck did we SELL that house? Sigh. It makes me sick to think of it now… what a great getaway that would have been.
Oh well. You can’t go back, right? Only forward.
I do feel like good things are coming down the pike, but its like we’re going through a kind of hazing now, where things get crazy and confusing and dramatic. But if we weather the storm we will come out Across the Burning Sands – I wonder if saying that gets me in trouble with the Tech Guru – and be okay.
I am always pushing his buttons about that stuff. Can I wear your shirts? Can you tell me the secret handshake? What do the letters stand for? Exactly how many times did you get hit in the ass and did you ever think, I wish I could just hit this motherfucker back?(In case this is all making no sense to you, he is in a fraternity. ) He just laughs at me when I ask these questions, grins and asks me, “Why do you want to know?” Except for the t-shirts. I have been allowed to wear the t-shirts but only inside the house. And the house must be on fire at the time and I must be stark naked and unable to find anything else to wear. In that case, yes, I am allowed to wear the t-shirts.
I have no idea what the hell ANY of that has to do with renovations, except maybe that it would be great if he could find some pledges to come up in here and help with this shit. But he has moved on from that phase of life so I guess it’s either his brute strength or some other laborer. Since he’s Latin I keep telling him to ANDALE his ass to Home Depot and find some Chicanos to help out, but…he doesn’t really have the time to be scoping out illegal labor at Home Depot. Maybe I’ll ask our Cuban neighbor across the street, a big brawny dude who owns 2 houses on the block, walks up and down the street on his cell with no shirt on – well that was before he bought the motorcycle – and sports a swinging ponytail like a brunette Fabio. He is HYSTERICAL. He could probably find the Mexicans, although I think he does most of the work on his house himself. He admits, however, that he has NO idea what the fuck he’s doing, which is hilarious.
Okay, people, stay tuned on the renovations. Maybe I’ll do some before and after photos. In the meantime, as hubby’s people say….CIAO!