This old house part 2

This is the last evening I'm in Iowa. It's been a surreal visit on a lot of levels, but pretty good, I'd say, considering the reason I came.

The next time I visit my parents they may no longer live in my childhood home. I have mixed feelings about that -- part of me jumps for joy (they might be considered hoarders), and the other makes me very sad. There are so many memories in this house, leaving them makes me feel like I'm losing something in some way.

And I haven't lived here in almost 20 years.

Strange, huh?

My parents have asked my brothers and I to go through all of the furniture, the boxes, the riff raff that my parents are not planning to take with them, and choose things to take ourselves. It's a strange thing, bargaining with my brothers about my parents' stuff, especially when they are still alive and are there to referee. It's really bizarre.

My parents are buying really nice new furniture for their new place. I say, viva! live it up, you've worked too hard and too long not to enjoy your money.

But, then, we'll have to do this again, this bargaining, this selecting... which I don't like to do.

Stuff is stuff.

I struggle with that stuff wanting -- there is part of me that wants to become a millionaire, wants to have a great house, wants to have great clothes, wants to have dishes that aren;t chipped, you know the stuff.

A friend said to me the other day that she really wanted to get married for the stuff. Not the anything else, but the stuff.

I concur. Where the hell is my payback for all of the stuff I have purchased for everyone else?

Thou shalt not be jealous (or something like that?)

Tra la
Tra la

A sea of nonsequitor random spewing

pour vous

bon soir.

Greetings from Iowa!

This place smells like dirt.

No joke.

And I like it.

I'm here for the weekend to visit my ailing Momma (who is doing better, thanks) and help out around the house. My parents are in the process of moving, so the house is dishelved (more so than usual), I'm still struggling with back injuries (etc.) and so I'm staying in a hotel.

The whole thing is slightly weird. The hotel staying thing, that is. In some ways, it's fabulous. I'm a tourist in my hometown. I'm slightly distanced from the parent visit so I am not 100% immersed into my 12 year old self (and behaviors) and at night, I can take a break and sleep in a bed.

I'm a big fan of the whole enterprise.

My brothers, however, are not pleased with me. Are they ever? Especially my middle brother -- for him, I can do no right. Never. Ever. I still remember him lovingly clapping as I'm carrying all of my crap to my car (by myself, mind you) on the day I officially moved out of my parents house. He, clapping, sitting on the couch. Petting the dog.

Thanks, dude. You're aces.

I've also determined that getting out of town post-dumping is a good thing. Clears your mind. Gives you new perspective.

It's all good.

I think I'm going to become a buddhist.

How's that for a random non-sequitor on this lovely fall Sunday in the midwest.

Tra la tra la

To everything, turn turn turn...

Wind storms

It's 11:47 p.m. I'm tired. I just ate some ice cream. I'm shivering.

Did I mention I'm tired?

I spent the evening at the hospital. Everything's fine -- just annoying more than anything else.
On the plus side, the hospital had warmth, TV, and a nice nurse named Ruthie who told me I was the most sane person she had seen all night.

That made me warm inside.

I had no warmth, I had no TV. The power was out when I got home at 6, and it just came back on about 10 minutes ago. I'm so happy I can hardly control myself.

The Seattle area had its first winter storm today -- mostly rain and wind. By midwest and east coast standards, these storms are not the worst things in the world. However, they make me nervous.... I'm mildly convinced that a gigantic tree is going to blow over and fall on my head.

You see, I've had a bout of bad luck. Well, a life of bad luck, actually. So many bizarrely bad luckish I couldn't begin to describe them, and recounting them isn't worth my energy (why is it so easy to go to our unhappy places?). So, let's say, for the sake of argument, that I have really bad luck. Let's also say that my mother has had bad luck (she's out of the hospital, by the way), and her mother has had bad luck. My grandmother's grandmother (Anna Jonasova) is wearing a horseshoe pendant in a family photo I have of her. Could she have had bad luck, too?

I'm wondering if any suggestions for good luck charms / suggestions / blah blah to protect my house from the freakin winter wind storms. The one today was enough of a nail biter to last me a year...

Prozac, any one?

Do you clean your bathroom regularly?

My mother is an admitted horrible domestic -- can't cook for crap, and finds it "difficult" to clean. You know the type: packrat, lazy, blah blah.

When I was a child, my family went to church regularly. My father would peel us out of bed at 7 holy shit 30, we would climb into the backseat of my father's tan Buick Estate Wagon (oh yeah), drive the 2 miles to St. Augustin's Church, and sit together in one very small pew on the left side of the church (facing the altar) about 3/4 of the way back. We had to sit child parent child parent child because... well, we had to. And we always wanted to sit next to our mother. She wasn't as strict about all of the kneeling and praying.

Every week.
Kneeling and praying.

Every week, I got through the hour by thinking about a boy I had a crush on.

Kneeling and praying.

After church, every week, we returned home to do chores. My assignment didn't vary much -- when it was nice outside, I got to wash the car(s), but most of the time, I had to clean the upstairs bathroom. It was disgusting. Every week. The upstairs bathroom was used by my two brothers, my father, and me. My mother used the downstairs bathroom where she smoked dark stains of nicotine onto the walls.

I think perhaps my bathroom cleaning experience in childhood has marred me for life.

Okay folks, a true confession: I don't like to clean my bathtub. No, I hate it. So, my hatred of it, my traumatic childhood of the upstairs bathroom, and the fact (let's admit it gals) that I don't often have overnight houseguests contributes to my bathtub cleaning laziness.

When I do it, it takes forever. I have to scrub a lot, and the awkwardness of the tub and my still painful arm and my fear of being eaten by rats coming through the pipes, and the general grossness of the whole ordeal does not make it easier.

My new year's resolution (is it too late to make one for 2007?) is to clean my bathroom more often.

How do you deal with the horror (the horror) of bathtub cleaning?

IKEA makes me feel like a bad ass

This afternoon I went to IKEA.

Oh! the joy!
Oh! the splendor!

Oh! The meatballs.

Ok, it's gross. I know. I can't help it. I (heart) the Ikea meatballs.

And, yes, I know, Virginia, they are not gluten free.

Whatever.

Ok, I won't complain if my tongue swells, my stomach hurts. I deserve it.

I tell you, those things are the sirens of my stomach. From the second I walk into Ikea, a land of all things joy and splendor in a flat-packed box, the meatballs are calling my name. I don't care if I'm hungry.

The meatballs must be eaten.

I'm sure part of the beckoning is because they are freakin' Scandinavian tasty ass tasty and remind me of Finland. A place I love. Where people I love live.

Even though there are sweet ass meatballs, I go to IKEA very infrequently -- it's a long drive from my house and traffic sucks, and blah blah carbon footprint blah. So, whenever I got there, I come with a list and buy lots of shit. I always end up with more shit on my list, though. The place is like the Target of gifts for the home land -- I go in with the intent to spend $10, and walk out with a $300 hole in my pocket.

(I love crap for the home.)

So today, I'm at IKEA. I eat my meatballs, I peruse the duvet covers. I buy a new lamp.

I bring it all home. Only $130 this time, thanks to a gift certificate from some dear friends in Michigan.

I carry in my flat-packed crap., I put the hangers away. I put away the folding chairs. And then -- it's time to tackle the big project. I start to sweat. I think about screwdrivers in my eye. You know, the usual neurotic IhavenoideawhatI'mdoing paranoia. It's not a huge project, but I'm thinking : SHIT -- I have to put together the lamp. It's all boxed up and glass and wall mounted and potentially scary.

Breathe.

I open the instructions.

I follow the instructions.

It took 5 minutes.

Yeah, I panicked for no reason.

The lamp works and I figure out how to hang it on the wall without any big drama.

And I look at the screwdriver, at the lamp on my wall. Hell, yeah! I am a bad ass.

I start waltzing around my house like a wizard with the screwdriver. I've determined I'm ready to conquer the world with my little tool box. Next thing you know, I'll be building a gazebo (ok, no, I hate gazebos) in my backyard. Or a new fence. Or a fabulous rat catcher.

Now I want to do home shit. I can thank IKEA for helping me get my tool groove back.

TOILET REPAIR REDUX

My toilet is fixed.
The fill valve had to be replaced.
I used a sponge.
I watched my fabulous and wise friend Teresa fix it.
I held the directions while she did all of the work.
Success.

LAWN MOWING REDUX

I hadn't mowed my lawn for almost 3 weeks. It was shaggy mcshaggers. Now, the lawn looks good. How satisfying to mow and to see a lot of grass But, crap, there are a lot of leaves. That I'm not looking forward to dealing with.

And I bring up the perplexing question again -- what DO you do with the lawn rubbish that won't fit into the bin?

By the way, I got this image from http://www.amazingtextures.com/. Um... grass is an amazing texture? And this photo? Amazing?

I think not.

Toilet trauma

I got home this afternoon in the sunshine, happy to have a few hours to relax before an evening event at work. I'm exhausted and planned to spend the afternoon sitting on my couch and eating bon bons.

However, as we have all learned by now, there is no rest for the Single Gal: something's wrong with my toilet.

It will not stop running.

I've studied its interior. I've studied its exterior.
I have no fucking idea what's wrong with it.
All I can say is that I'm ready to get the hammer out and start wacking things. That'll fix it, I'm sure.

I turned off the water.

I consulted Toiletology 101 -- which made me want to vomit in said running toilet. And then various DIY websites. Nothing addressed my unique toilet issue -- it's clearly not a simple problem.

Unfortunately, I cannot consult the mechanical know-how I absorbed while living in Iowa. I learned nothing about fixing nothing.

I do, however, know that there are 4 times as many pigs as people living in the state. A fact all should know, love, and embrace.

Yeee haw!

TANGENT

Whatever happened to that show -- Hee Haw! I always thought that was dumb as crap, and in a tie for Land of the Lost as the worst show on television in the 1970s.

UNTANGENT

And, genetically, I got nothin' to back me up fixin' no toilets.

My mother won't drive a car. It's too complicated (even the automatic flavor) and it stresses her out. Leave her in a room filled with wrenches, come back in a hour, and the woman would be in the fetal position sucking on her thumb.

She is freaked out by woks, too.

And then there is my father. A dear man who loves to read, does not own a power tool, and puts up Christmas tree lights every year while standing on an old 15 foot wooden ladder without a spotter. Doesn't need it, he claims.

Oh, did I mention he uses masking tape to attach the Christmas lights to the house? Masking tape. In Iowa. In the winter.

Masking tape.

So here I am, with no assistance from my genetics or freaking Toiletology 101 to try to determine the operating logistics for my toilet.

Maybe I need coffee.

Maybe I need a swift kick to the head.

Maybe I need some divine intervention here.

My newest toilet fixing plan is this: maybe if I turn the water back on in a few hours the problem will have magically fixed itself.

As I kneel in front of the porcelin god, I sing hymns of praise:

Toilet
o glorious toilet
be thou not afraid
cease thy running and embrace thy environment
do not cause the single gal more pain.

I call on the toilet genie,
Mr. Clean,
the scrubbing bubbles...
I call them now

Please, icons of cleaning products everywhere
please fix my toilet
without cost
or worry
before I start freakin' and have to call
Beacon.

Hee Haw!

That old house...

I'm sad to report -- my mother is in the hospital today. She and my father are both exhausted, tired of waiting for test results, tired of my mother being in pain.

I wish I could help take care of her -- give her a hug and read cheesy magazines -- but she lives in Iowa, and I, in Seattle. I feel like my hands are tied by distance.

Today is probably the first day since I moved out of their house in 1990 that I feel sad to be so far away.

My mother's illness is encourages me to reflect on the good times we've had together. We've definitely (and emphasize the definitely) had our struggles over the years, but we've also had some crazy adventures. I'm choosing to think about those today.

My family and I moved into what my brother and I called "the new house" in 1979. I was 7, and I lived there until I was 17. Most of my childhood memories are associated with that house -- the first night my youngest brother came home from the hospital, the countless family photographs taken in front of the antique grandfather clock in the living room, and the hours spent in teenage angst in my room.

The house was constructed in 1905 and sits maybe 100 yards from my former high school and a few blocks from my former elementary school. My parents are only the third owners of the house. The first owners were three sisters who were teachers at the high school. The second were some weird people who liked raisins (that's my only memory of them) and painted everything green in the house.

And then there were my parents, who loved the house initially. They redid the wood floors, put in new carpet, stained the wood trim in the living room, repainted the house, got a new roof, fixed leaks. And after we grew up and moved out, they did nothing to it. They sort of stopped. Their memories were frozen, as were the repairs and renovations. They haven't done any work to it for many many many years.

The beautiful house has lost her luster. My parents have fallen out of love with it. They have other things on their minds these days...

As my parents get older, they have started to live it up. For many years, they lived frugally, saving for our college tuitions, saving for retirement, saving to travel, saving to live. And now, as they reach their mid-60s, they are starting to kick it old school. They take an annual trip abroad. They spent more time on their hobbies and with their friends. They bought a condo.

Yes, that's right. They bought a condo.

After nearly 30 years of living in the same house, they are packing up their memories, trading their furniture, and giving away old clothes, books, and toys. They are movin' on up. To the east side. To a deluxe apartment in the sky.

No shit.

I am excited for them, but I am a little sad, though. I am surprised to find that I have an attachment to that house. It is the place of my childhood. It is the place I called home longer than anywhere else I've ever lived. There is a part of me in those walls, and when it is passed on to someone else, that part of me goes with them too.

The house holds some of my history.

I suppose that energy, that history a house holds, is why it takes so long to make a house a home.

So, I've moved into a new house, but the house is still new to me. It doesn't hold many of my memories. It will take some time for this new house to be my home.

You know what I mean?

On a furnace fiasco

Tuesday night sucked swamp water. Or, natural gas, rather.

I'm sitting in my living room, reading a magazine when the furnace stopped. Thinking the house had reached the thermostat's temperature, I thought nothing of it.

That is...

until it sounded like 14 airplanes were landing in my garage.

Terrified (and also a little pissed), I went into the garage, hammer in hand, ready to hit something.

That seems to be my all inclusive do-it-yourself technique -- hit it .

Standing in front of the furnace, I watched the thing rattle and hum (and spark) during the next installation of the 14 plane salute.

I dropped the hammer.

I ran away.

I turned off the furnace. Called my friend Teresa (who knows things -- she can paint) and she tried to calm me down. I refused.

I called Beacon Heating and Pumbing. I called them because they offer a 24 hour service. I was done freaking out.

From their television commercial, I have learned to stop freakin', I need to call Beacon.

After I made the call, the furnace dude was at my house in a hour. Done an hour after that.

Apparently, another problem with that sucker will be comin' down the mountain -- the igniter is calcified. I'd like to fix it myself, but the natural gas component of things makes me very nervous.

The problem? I had a clogged inducer, which I blame on the rats, thank you very much. That, and the jackitude who owned the house before me.

Clog this you motha*

* A profane word was censored here. I have been told that I need to stop cursing so much or I am going to hell.

SO CHECK THIS OUT...

I'm bored of talking about furnaces, so let's redirect our energy to my fabulous single gal friend Jess and her color sense.

That gal CAN paint.

Here's her deal (in her own words, baby!)

I wanted to share with all of you that I randomly entered my house in a "Color Contest" and unbelievably have made it into the top 40 entries (in the midwest) on the ApartmentTherapy.com website.

Click on this link and you can see my house as #6 under the Midwest titled "Jess is Color Confident".

While I know I'm a long shot in winning the whole thing, I'd appreciate your vote

http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/fall-colors-2007/#entries

This Single Gal says: Jess' house looks great! And her mural-painted stairs are alone worth a visit to the link -- they are VEEEERRRRRYYYYY cool.

The red teeth

I suck at painting.

There, I've admitted it.

I suck at a lot of things.
I don't usually admit that.

For example... I generally suck at sports. Although, I'm really and truly convinced there is one sport I can do with superstar agility and grace. My elementary school gym teacher didn't call me Super K for nothin'.

When I was in 8th grade, my quest for sport superstardom lead me to skiing. With absolute certainty, I convinced myself I had something in my blood that said, "skiier." No one in my family (that I knew of) had ever skiied. It was me, baby. I was SUPER K. I had inherited the ski gene.

So, without thinking twice, I signed up for the 8th grade trip to Afton Alps, Minnesota. Believe me, that was the best the school could do. I was set, man. I had new gloves and my neighbor's mother had let me borrow a SWEET orange and yellow scarf.

Fast forward a 9 hour bus ride (was it 9 hours? it felt like 9 hours)... getting ready to ski. I'm on the slope. I'm feelin' my natural talents as a skiier beginning to bust out. I could not be stopped.

Several of my friends had never skiied. They suggested I join them at Ski School.

I laughed.

I don't need Ski School. Hell, I could TEACH Ski School. That's how awesome a skiier I am.

My best friend dragged me to Ski School. She knew I had never been on skiis before and I had an unfortunate history of wiping out when there was no reason to wipe out.

So, whatever. WHATever.

I went.

I sighed a lot.

I put my hands on my hips.

I was a bitchin' pre-teen in the early 1980s. Rock on to Electric Avenue.

It was finally time for the class to head up to the top of the Bunny Hill, Afton Alps style. I was ready to show my stuff.

I fell off the ski lift.

It sucked.

I brushed it off. I had bad luck because I was around so many beginners.
Of course.
Duh.

I got to the top of the hill. I slid down. I was a bad ass.

My friends passed me. I started going faster to catch up with them.

I snowplowed.

I twisted, I flipped, I tore.

Ligaments did the el rippo, as they say. On crutches for 6 weeks.

Sucked.

I tell you this story to say: I am not terribly coordinated.

So when it came to painting the interior of my house, my uncoordinated self, coupled with my arm, neck, and back injury, and my firm belief that I am a rockstar at some sport (sport painting?), deluded me into thinking I could do all things, and it would look spectacular.

But.

I suck at painting.

I was reminded of this this morning as a colleague was regaling us with tales of her weekend bathroom painting experience. The hours of labor, the meticulous taping, and when the most glorious moment came (the tape removal), how disappointed she was when half of the paint on the wall came off with it.

I can relate.

This summer, before the rats were eradicated, before my stuff arrived, I painted (with the help of friends -- what's up Teresa, Riley, Laurel, and Karl?). The Living Room was the THING that needed to be done first.

It was a horrible experience.

The guy who had owned the house before me decided to paint an accent wall red. It didn't work for the space, and the color was ridiculous, and would totally, like, clash, with my "moss" colored sofas. It had to go.

We primed and painted and painted and painted. Moving drop cloths all over the place, painting the floor, ourselves. It was the hottest week of the year. It was unbearable in the house. I thought I was going to pass out.

Teresa brought popsicles. (I just ate one -- is that bad?)

The next day, THRILLED by the new colors in the house, I started to remove the tape. With, what I thought, was the utmost of care. Regardless of how hard I tried, the tape on the red wall took some of the butter yellow paint with it. Leaving a line of red teeth on the perimeter of the room. It looks absolutely freakin' ridiculous.

The dude apparently used EXTERIOR paint on the INTERIOR. Thanks, buddy.

Of course, I am hoping no one notices the teeth. As guests arrive, I shuttle them past the red teeth or distract them with rat tales and the fireplace which very well could be the new rat kingdom.

I know I should repaint it. But I just don't have the energy to do it at the moment. That'll be a project for the middle of winter, when my arm is feeling better, and I need cheering up with a paint fume high.

Then the teeth won't matter.

But as of now, I still suck at painting. I'm reminded of it when I look at the teeth and listen to paint removal stories by friends.

Sport painting isn't my athletic gift. Neither is skiing, apparently.

I'll find it. I will.

Maybe it's gutter cleaning?

shhhh, this is MY secret

Holy schniekies, I'm exhausted.

Had a full, and I do mean full, day at work. 85 meetings. 85 issues. A success! Another meeting.

I was done. And I do mean done.

Crawling away to go home.

A colleague stopped me. She needed a ride home.

Of course.

So now I'm really done.

REALLY DONE.

Ya dig?

However, the dog, left inside for 11 hours (yes, I know, I'm a horrible pet owner -- fuck you) peed somewhere, the where I could not find. So there I am in a state of exhaustion, sniffing the floor looking for pee.

My nose is congested.

I need one of those cool blood / pee detectors them CSI people use.

Find it (the pee, that is) by stepping in it.

I clean it up.

I put on new socks.

I look out the window. See the mound of apples.

I pick them up.

Daisy goes nuts and runs around in circles.

Daisy is still running around. I go inside.

I close the sliding glass door.

She runs after me. She slams into the door. Because it is closed which she does not realize. It nearly breaks.

I laugh, let her in, and give her a treat.

Poor dog.

Now I will eat some sort of Trader Joe splendor and watch some crap on TV.

My life is so glamourous.

This, the life of the single gal.