Riley's Ramblings

The Great Remodel of 2011, Before and After

2012-01-20T12:28:00.030-06:00

First, some history. My parents bought the old farmhouse in which I grew up at an auction for less than $30,000. Guess what happens when you buy an old farmhouse for less than $30,000 in the mid-eighties?

You live with perpetual, inconvenient renovations!

J bought the house we now inhabit back in the late nineties for $40,000. It was built in 1885 and stood vacant for 13 years before he bought it.

Guess what happens when you buy an ancient, 13 years-vacant farmhouse that used to be a rental unit for $40,000?

You live with perpetual, inconvenient renovations!

Now don’t get me wrong. I no longer mind the DIY. I’m learning a lot, and we’re slowly making our house exactly the way we want it. Also, two words: sweat equity. (Mostly sweat--have you ever hand-scraped Nixon-era carpet pad some genius glued and stapled to the pine floor boards below? In five rooms? It was so old it crumbled into yellow, rubbery dust. Masks were worn. Sneezing commenced. Knuckles and knees were bruised. Curses lingered in the air.)

My father-in law, hard at work...standing where a shed used to be attached to the house. My brother-in-law looks thrilled to be standing where our new driveway will be poured.

View of the same back door last summer. We painted it purple, just for kicks.

Since we bought the house, we’ve sunk an additional $70,000 into it. First, we started outside, with a new roof, new siding, new porches, new driveway, new exterior doors and windows, landscaping, and a brand-spanking new garage. With a magic door that opens at the push of a button!!!

Hey, I have a great idea! Let's side the house in February!

A cute 'lil birch now grows where two hulking Box Elder beasts used to.

Then we moved indoors, installing a tankless water heater, energy efficient furnace, beadboard wainscoting in the kitchen, new appliances, and *drum roll please*…our fall project: a complete remodel of the entire second story of our house. (We recently got a new computer and I lost most of my before photos in the transfer, but you’ll get the gist.)

This is an actual, unadulterated photo of our “daily-use” bathroom prior to the remodel (minus the mirror). I had to switch to waterproof mascara because anytime I stood in front of the mirror to apply make-up, I wept copiously.

Again, the toilet, which is only code-compliant on the planet “Crap Cobbled Together by Someone With Hand, Brain, and Eye Injuries.” Here were the things that crossed my mind the very first time I laid eyes on this engineering marvel: “There’s a toilet in the wall. Spiders. Gross. Disgusting. Bugs. Ewww. Those lazy bastards. There’s a toilet in the wall.”

In the days before The Great Remodel, there was a Great Purge. In the Purge, I hauled almost every piece of our old furniture to the curb. Countless trips to Goodwill and electronics recycling drives were made. It was time. Most of that stuff had moved from house to house to house with me since college. I finally got rid of the twin bed I’d had since I was three.

I was ruthless in my culling. I became a hoarder’s worst nightmare. I even tried to convince J to throw away an oil painting done by his grandmother, because a) it is buttass-ugly; b) it’s not done by my grandma; and, c) I have a heart made of obsidian and/or am part robot. I let him keep it in the garage, partly to assuage my guilt that I threw away other personal belongings of his when he wasn’t looking.

This looks safe, doesn't it?

I am standing where our new walk-in closet will be. I can't even believe I get to type that. The bathroom walls are completely gone, yet the old, yellow-ochre, 70s phone booth shower stall remains. New doorways and walls to come ...

You have to add a few charming yet unnecessary touches. I'm ashamed to tell you what this switch plate cost. So I'm not going to.

Everything in this picture is new except the windowpanes. Also, I've developed a fondness for wrought-iron.

I love this hallway now; it used to be a big landing with tons of wasted space. I wish I had a before photo, so you could see how ridiculous the layout was.

The "new" spare bedroom, which is empty from The Great Purge. That door is brand-spanking new. That space used to be a closet. I am standing almost where the old entrance was; just three months ago, your only way in or out of this bedroom was through the adjacent walk-through bathroom. So if someone was dropping a deuce and you really wanted to get downstairs, you just had to wait awhile, Nelly. You were trapped.

This might be my favorite room. Once a small, grubby bedroom with peeling walls and a bare, dangling lightbulb that screamed "CRACK DEN!", this is now my walk-in closet / dressing room / ironing and folding station. I can iron a shirt, put on some slacks, and lie down to do celebratory floor-angels on the fluffy new carpet if I want. See that post-demo photo above featuring the shovel? I'm standing in the same spot.

During the demo, we found a decorative old metal grate that we'll clean, repaint, and install over the cold air return at the base of the linen closet; until then, Daisy will continue to sniff the hole cautiously and growl at it in warning so it doesn't suck her down into the furnace.

Oh Pottery Barn, I finally know yee.* (* I spelled “ye” with an extra “e,” because otherwise it would sound like, “yeh,” and I want to be clear. I mean “YEE.”)

This glass door is so new it still smells like silicone caulk and solvents. Still, I'm trying not to lick it whenever I walk by.

I no longer cry when I put my makeup on here. I sing. Which is really hard when you're applying lipstick. See that custom linen closet? It's a pass-through; I can reach through and wave to J in the bedroom, while he's shelving freshly folded towels on the other side. Right, J?

Remember when you were a kid and your Dad said that one friend of yours had a face like a bag full of doorknobs? I know! Me neither! But look—now I have an actual bag full of doorknobs!!! This is one of our last tasks; first we have to finish painting the doors.

J and I leveled the floor and laid this grout-free Duraceramic tile ourselves, which was an adventure. (Helpful tip: Leveling compound is NOT supposed to be lumpy when you pour it on the floor.)

No more toilet in the wall! Trust me when I tell you I now hear a chorus of angels singing Hallelujah every time I sit down.

~~~~~~~~~

So there you have it. We'll be turning our attention to the living room, downstairs bath, and kitchen this summer.

Or next. The adventure continues.

Looking for Ms. Vadino

2012-01-18T07:56:00.001-06:00

It's my turn in the rotation at CBGB....I mean GBCB. Less punk, more writing. Stop by and tell me about your favorite elusive author!

I Gave Birth to This Blog (For You)

2012-01-03T20:24:00.005-06:00

Wouldn't that be a great song title?

Anyway, hi! Welcome back to the place I infrequent. How were your holidays?

My Christmas was chock-full of kiddos, as Christmases are wont to be. So naturally, conversation during one get-together eventually touched on the fact that I remain securely in the “Godmother, I love you THIS much!” card section at Hallmark. I got a bit of ribbing about the barren state of things, tick-tock and such, though I can’t imagine this type of teasing lasting many more years. (Though science continues to advance...Onward, science!)

At one point, I good-naturedly countered with, “With my luck, our kid would totally be an asshole!” And the conversation only devolved from there.

I am closer to 40 than 35, which means there is a 96% chance I will hear this from my doctor should Things Get Real: “If your ovaries have not yet crumbled to dust and actually Leggo a viable Eggo, you are a higher risk than a credit default swap circa 2005 … also, are you aware that if you do conceive, your preggo-pendi will likely become a perma-pendi?”*

I can imagine myself examining the ultrasound results with my doctor. “Ah,” she’d say, “See that? You can already see the laryngeal birth defect forming …”

“What does that mean?” I’d say, sitting up, fighting panic.

“Just that your child will never be able to form the words ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘please,’ or ‘thank you.’

It also means he’ll probably try to set the dog on fire, steal money from his grandparents, deface church property, and there will be rashes. On a weekly basis.”

And I’d anxiously pull up my elastic-waistband pants and leave, huffing to J on the way to the car: “That’s the last time we get an ultra-sound from someone in the WalMart parking lot!”

*”Pendi” is my aunt and uncle’s shorthand for “pedunculus," defined by the Urban Dictionary as follows: “a frontbutt on women (and some men), the pedunculus is the last fatty roll before the vagina.” You're welcome.

~~~~~

In totally unrelated news, I am mulling some changes to this blog, because if I'm totally sick of looking at the layout, I can only imagine the guttural revulsion you're feeling by now. So, here are some new names I'm considering for the site:

1) Tight slacks.

2) I wanted to call this “Two Dinks and a Dog,” but some non-posting asshole already bought that domain. (Yes, the whole sentence. Maybe I'd use underscores for spaces.)

3) That’s not chili!

And now that my most entertaining neighbor is dead, what should the focus of the blog be? Lifestyle, writing, food, gardening, mommy blogger with an invisible child named Sebastian, who is allergic to soy and enjoys crafting with felt? Maybe a weekly interview with J while he reacts to something strange I make for dinner ("Yes. There are definitely subtle notes of construction adhesive at work here, though the overall mouth-feel is playful, strangely evocative of crushed tapioca"). Maybe I could give my dog a monthly guest slot, though every blog she posts would just look like this: "Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of butt scooting across carpet--bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of retching--bark-bark!!!!" So that would get old after awhile.

Lately I have been in a state of EXTREME anxiety concerning a project at work, so maybe I could document my meltdown? I have a feeling it could be spectacular! Would I be fired if I put this footnote in my grant proposal: "As you can clearly see, the client did NOT trust my professional opinion or provide timely, detailed information. Therefore, instead of a well-developed proposal that could result in meaningful change in our community, you are being presented with a charcoal rendering of Ed Helms' profile, a strangers' grocery list that I found in a parking lot, and a selection of my Best Blogs from 2006. Enjoy!"

Here's what I'm thinking: Meltdown Monday, Testy Teste Tuesday, Wow-What-a-Weave! Wednesday, Thin-Skinned Thursday, and Found in the Fridge Friday.

Or we could stick with the current sporadic, unpredictable, rickety-ass schedule. Which is kind of fun, because who doesn't like surprises?

Patience, Old Grasshopper

2011-12-22T09:28:00.004-06:00

Last night I made the mistake of stopping at Target on my way home from work, when every other resident of my community got the same idea at the exact same time. I only ended up with a handful of things in my cart, because the store was out of several key items on my list. This Christmas, if anyone asks you during an after-dinner trivia game, “Which major U.S. retailer was completely out of Rolos three days before the second-largest candytastic U.S. holiday?” you can now answer with confidence.

The lines to check-out were endless, streaming into jewelry and inappropriate tween wear. I wove my cart through the herd and settled into Lane 8, which only had three shoppers in front of me. However, Lane 6 only had one shopper! And she was already checking out! Oh, joyful, speedy day!

Quickly, I steered my cart into Lane 6. Which was when time waded into a pit of molasses and started to sink. After five or ten minutes of mouth-counting, the clerk finished sorting the ninety dollar bills the woman before me had laid on the counter. And then the shopper asked the clerk: “Do you have a pen?”

Holy, sweet, innocent baby Jesus, do you have a mother^&#@ing pen?!?! That’s right neighbors, Speedy Gonzalez was paying for a portion of her purchase with a check! A check! Like they used all the time back in 1982! And she was penless, despite having a purse the size of a Buick on her shoulder.

“Do you want to apply for a Target credit card to save 5%?”

“No, but why don’t you slowly read me the fine print anyway?”

“Sure!” After the clerk finished reading, she pulled out a massive abacus to complete the transaction, while the shopper fished through her purse for some glass beads and decorative feathers with which to finish paying for her items.

“Do you need to see my driver’s license?”

“No, as long as your license number is on the check.”

“I want to show it to you anyway, but it’s expired.”

“Oh, well why don’t you run down to the DMV to renew it, come back, and finish paying for your things? I can wait!”

They were completely oblivious to the orgy of frustration and impatience seething within me. The only clue was the twitching of my left eyelid; the sales associate in Lane 10 noticed, however, and started winking back at me. I wanted to throttle both of them, or gently ask if a swift foot to the taint might help speed the whole process along. I could suddenly see the merits of a concealed carry permit. But I took a deep breath, pulled my phone from my purse, checked the time, and settled for sighing heavily.

In Lane 8 next to me, twelve shoppers who'd arrived at the store after I’d switched check-out lanes had already paid for their purchases, and returned home. Several of them had already eaten spaghetti for dinner and were now cuddled on the couch with loved ones, watching the X-Factor finals.

Eventually, I paid for my own items, and eventually, I got home, made dinner, and watched a nature show on PBS because I am old.

Still later, the universe decided to teach me a few lessons about patience when I found myself upstairs in my painting clothes at ten p.m., numbly applying second coats of white paint to window and door trim, my taskmaster cracking a bull whip over my shoulder and shouting things like, “You’ve got a drip! Catch it, catch it!” and “Sand with the grain! With the grain, I say!!!”*

Patience. It’s what I really want for Christmas.

*J really isn't this bad, though I have been banned from doing any touch-up painting on surfaces at eye-level. My evil plan to get out of tedious detail-work by pretending to do things poorly is working…

Half-Assery Abounds

2011-11-30T16:19:00.003-06:00

We are at the point in our DIY adventure where it feels like we'll never see the finish line...who knew five rooms could have so much trim to prime, sand, putty, paint, and re-paint? The tedium is exhausting, and I'm battling a strong urge to do a totally half-assed job. My wrists have told me in no uncertain terms that they are not in their twenties any longer. Unfortunately, J has suddenly become more detail-oriented than a Swiss watch maker, re-puttying nail holes I filled yesterday, insisting on sanding and re-painting when I think it's just fine.

We also realized that we have no stairwell clearance for a new queen-sized mattress, so we had to break down and order a spendy Sleep-Number bed, sight-unseen. My heart still hasn't recovered from that unexpected additional expense. Also, we've never even tried one out! We just bought the mattress, one easy online click, because we knew we'd be able to get it up our steps. Just another one of the many joys of living in a 125-year old house built when people and their dreams were much, much shorter.

I console myself with the knowledge that in three weeks, we'll be able to stop sleeping in the living room, stop living like hoarders, and move back upstairs to sleep on a REAL (Sleep-Number) bed again.

Things I've learned during this remodeling project:

If your floor leveling compound is lumpy when you pour it on the floor, you did something wrong. Perhaps God is angry at you.
If I ever hear Bob Seger, Foreigner, or Warren Zevon again, it'll be too soon.
We should have gotten a Menards "Big card" YEARS ago.
Open a few windows when you're priming walls and ceilings, unless you don't really want the brain cells dedicated to math and/or critical thinking.
When your vanity counter top for some reason fails to overhang the vanity cabinet, it looks like shit. Get your husband to glue some kind of jerry-rigged pieces of plastic he found at work to the backsplash. Nobody will know.
There are always more cracked stair treads beneath the old carpeting than the one you are aware of.
Don't paint yourself into a corner, get up to date on your Tetanus shots, and buy a humane bark collar for your dog. Your contractors will thank you.

At the Girlfriends' Book Club...

2011-11-16T11:07:00.002-06:00

I'm blogging today at the Girlfriends' Book Club about one of my stranger, more unsettling childhood memories and the books I loved way back when...

Could it be....Seitan?

2011-11-07T19:56:00.004-06:00

Just checking in ... we are still up to our eyeballs in home renovations, although at least we are at the painting stage. All ceilings and three rooms down--2 more to go. Lighting, flooring, trim, and dear-God-can-we-really-stop-sleeping-on-the-futon-soon?

Tonight J's parents stopped by on their way through town for a quick visit, and I fed them dinner. I stuck to the game plan from my weekly menu: oven-roasted acorn squash with pesto pasta and sun-dried tomatoes, peas, and seitan. It's pronounced "Say-TAHN," but you can call it "Satan," like my mother-in-law did, because then you'll know whom* to blame when the gas kicks in later.

Yeah, I forgot about that part--I formally apologize to my in-laws for subjecting them to my weird meal AND the deleterious side effects. Some daughter-in-law I am!

In case you were wondering, seitan is vital wheat gluten mixed with broth and boiled for an hour--it sounds gross, and it kind of is (unless you grill it and season it and toss it with something else). A chicken analogue, of sorts. Best chopped up and tossed in a pot pie or soup, actually. Neither of which I did, resulting in a sub-par Meatless Monday.

Okay, I've got more painting to do, so I'm off. I can't wait to post the full before- and after- blog, with photos.

*Does it sound pretentious to say "whom" here? Is it even warranted?

I Can't Believe I'm Posting These

2011-10-14T11:32:00.013-05:00

After living in the same house for 16 years, J and I thought it was finally time to seize the day and buy that house in the country we’ve dreamed of. With a garden! Fruit trees! A chicken coop! Maybe even room for more than two people to eat in the kitchen!

But most importantly:

Somebody once thought this was a good idea.

A toilet that isn’t stuck in the wall!

This photo may one day make its way into one of those “shit rednecks cobble together with duct-tape and gum” photo montages, but you saw it here first, kids.

So after attempting to sell our house for six months last year with ZERO offers, I am convinced that our bizarre walk-through, haphazard, dangerously not-up-to-code bathroom is to blame.

Can you believe I used to clean this room? Who did I think I was fooling?

I know, I'm as surprised as you. I mean, who DOESN’T love squishy walls and exposed PVC piping that appears to have simply been jammed into the wall, where it molds and rots and incubates and emits funky smells and you can fall asleep to the relaxing sound of the grody faucet dripping, because your bed is just eight feet away?

J and I took advantage of a recent loan sale at our credit union, sucked it up, and decided to bring our 125 year-old house into a safer, more hospitable state. Preferably something that wouldn’t give my four year-old nephew nightmares, rashes, or asthma when he comes to visit.

Living in a house with ample, code-safe electrical outlets and an actual bathroom vanity is a prospect that excites me to no end. Did you hear that? An ACTUAL bathroom vanity! On which I can set my toothbrush without gagging or grimacing! Be still, my beating heart.

While this work is being completed, J and I are living on our first floor. I suppose we could sleep in this—

But I may lose 60% of my lung capacity and end up with the sooty face of a character featured in a Dickens novel. So, futon-behind-a-sheet it is for the time being. I am also doing my hair and makeup in the same chair in which I wrote my last novel, and the dog eats and drinks four feet from the pillow I sleep on every night.

Nonetheless, I am still finding a way in the midst of this chaos to do some fall baking, because I’ll be damned if I have to bid farewell to summer AND miss out on recipes featuring pumpkin, cinnamon, squash, and sage. (Mmmm, pumpkin-ricotta lasagna ... I think it's the lead paint dust that gives it that spicy, piquant flair.)

Last night I baked a caramel apple cake (averting tragedy when I remembered just a minute after I put the cake in the oven that I’d forgotten to add an entire stick of butter… "Why is this batter SO DRY?!”) It’s my mother-in-law’s birthday today, so it’s actually for her—so, Happy Birthday if you’re reading this, Mama Riley! You take the cake!"* But first we’ll take you out for dinner to celebrate.

*Don't worry, there isn't any lead paint dust in it. And by "any," I mean "much (I hope)."

Mama's got a (holy water) squeezebox

2011-10-01T09:42:00.003-05:00

J and I have been busy removing every personal item and piece of furniture from our second floor, which is about to undergo a major renovation. We're talking moving walls, cutting new doors, new wiring and outlets, new sheetrock, new ceilings, new flooring, and--most importantly--a new bathroom. (Do you hear that? It's the sound of an angelic choir celebrating with me. They're singing Kool and the Gang: "Celebrate good times, come on!")

The absolute bane of my existence shall be gutted! And replaced with something that actually makes sense. After things are finished, I'll post a before and after photo. You will be horrified by the before. I guarantee it. When we had them visit to take measurements for the estimate, even our contractors were horrified, laughing and scratching their heads. "Now this is special," one of them said. The other was speechless. I got the impression that were he alone, he'd curl into a ball and start rocking in the corner.

As we pack and displace our belongings (everything must go!), it's been fun discovering personal artifacts we'd long-since forgotten about. A diary I kept when I was nine, accompanied by a creepy lock of hair...misshapen ceramic art projects J made in high school. And! A handful of rosaries and a small squeeze bottle of holy water.

I must have received it during some religious exercise in my youth (a better person would call them 'sacraments'). I can't remember if it was my confirmation, or my first communion, or simply because the nuns were worried for our souls and handed them out like candy one day after catechism class.

There is a sticker affixed to the back of the bottle which reads: "Holy water is a sacramental. Any deliberate misuse or disrespect of it is a serious sin of sacrilege."

Now, calling me a "lapsed" Catholic would be putting it mildly. I'm so lapsed that on the occasions I DO return to church, I worry about my skin smoldering. Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit, but I no longer am a member of any sort of organized religion for my own very private, personal reasons. I know what I believe and what I no longer believe, but most of all, I know that there is so much I do not know. YET--

Certain habits and long-ingrained beliefs tend to linger. Take the bottle of holy water. "What should I do with it?" I asked J.

"Water your plants with it."

I figured I'd go straight to hell if I did, so I tried giving it to my mom, who still goes to church. "Can you pour this back in the holy water fount?" I asked. She laughed and politely declined.

"Water your plants with it!" my Dad suggested.

"I can't do that!" And then I paused. Am I REALLY this superstitious??!! What would happen if I dumped it in a potted fern...would I be struck by lightning? Be attacked by a plague of locusts? Be forced to eat pork and wear a shirt of mixed fibers?

In the end, the holy water came back home with me. On the way, J said, "Maybe having this in the house is why it's not haunted." Granted, our house was built in 1885, but my husband is NOT the superstitious type.

Clearly, some of his childhood religious education and superstitions also lingered. It's a tenacious thing. Or maybe we'd just seen The Exorcist too many times.

Either way, the holy water remains in my living room, tucked near some photo albums on a shelf. Just in case.

It Ain't Me, Babe

2011-09-21T20:13:00.002-05:00

Well hello there! I am pleased to report that the novel is FINISHED, pending a few small remaining revisions...and then I cross my fingers and ship it off to my agent. And then lie on the floor trying not to hyperventilate.

I have a new post for this very blog all planned--it's totally written in my head--I just need to get it on here. In the meantime, I am blogging with the Girlfriends' Book Club, about basing characters on real people. Come say hi so I don't feel lonely!

Consumed by the NIP

2011-08-17T14:51:00.007-05:00

Last night, after a full day of dicking around and fretting and tweaking, I finally crossed page 200 in my novel-in-progress. I’d suggest we call it my NIP, but some people might get the wrong idea, so let’s actually call it my “work-in-progress.” My WIP. I’d prefer VIP, but I can’t think of a word that starts with a “V” that would refer to the most frustrating, complicated, messy novel I’ve ever had the balls to write.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s coming together. Every day I begin what’s come to feel like an agonizing marathon in clogs, with people along the route holding orange slices and Dixie cups filled with bad, demoralizing news instead of water, but every day I meet the page goal, somehow, and say to myself. “That wasn’t so bad. Off to bed, have to do it all over again tomorrow!”

After I got about 50 pages in, I began to sail, and like calendar pages flying by in an old movie, the pages rapidly multiplied. Now I’m floating on a warped, water-logged board in the middle of the ocean, parched and sunburned, desperate for a breeze to push me toward the right shore.

I have essentially eleven days until I am back at work full-time, at which point my fiction will be back-burnered, at least until I adjust to the new schedule. So I push through the empty space, nearly racing to beat the clock.

Darn stomach, demanding to be filled with food I must purchase with a paycheck.

So that’s where I’ve been these last few weeks. Cranking out the prose, trying to knit subplots together and keep track of the crazy characters who’ve come to seem like real people to me.

Also, this is going on:

This recently finished:

And the monster that's eaten my front flowerbed shows no signs of abating:

I’ll be scarce around here until September, but if you need me, you know where to find me. Unshowered and highly caffeinated, hunched over my computer keyboard.

Added on edit: I just came across this link today that explains it all. Perfectly.

Oh, the Humanity!

2011-07-26T19:24:00.003-05:00

I'm blogging at the Girlfriends Book Club today. About anxiety as it relates to writing. And how I'm never anxious. Ever. Nope. Not me. Cool as a cucumber. In Tehran. During a ban on cucumbers.

Stop by and tell me to relax a little.

More Evidence that I am Going Straight to Hell

2011-07-20T14:26:00.004-05:00

We recently attended Summerfest, which is the experience for you if you ever wondered what it might have felt like to be separated into panicked, gender-segregated lines potentially leading to cattle cars en route to Treblinka.

Okay, it wasn’t that bad, but that was what I thought every time I found myself at the front of a chaotic line just to enter the damn park, when that line would suddenly “close,” and I’d be directed to join a nearby line "for women only." The women-only lines were 32 miles long and full of sweaty, tattooed strangers. I should emphasize that I was alone, because my husband and friends had left me behind, flagrantly barging past the groping / purse searching Summerfest staff shouting, “Males only! Males only!” in our faces, while I obediently followed directions.

I’ll never do that again.

Once in the park, I tried to relax, but a whirling press of drunks sloshing beer on your shoes and pretending to steal your fried eggplant while you desperately search for a bathroom that doesn’t smell like a dead prostitute doesn’t exactly create an aura of calm.

Beer helps. While in line for one, I spotted the most magnificent, Ode-to-the-Eighties hairdo I’ve seen in years. It was a perfect specimen—nearly every end split, teased and curled into a perfect helmet of wind-blown, feathered frizz. I took a picture of it, which I’d hoped to share with you here, but my dear husband dropped my phone and I lost all of the photos on my SD card.

Not that I’m still peeved about this …

Anyway, the woman’s haircut. It was a thing to behold. Just a glimpse of that hair could set a Poison album loose in your head, float the ghost-scents of Aqua-Net and Exclamation perfume on the breeze.

“Who wears their hair like that anymore?” I asked J, amazed.

“People who like to bowl,” he answered.

It was the kind of response that reminded me why I still loved him, despite his dropping my camera and accidentally erasing dozens of adorable photos of my nieces and nephew.

In other news, the first 100 pages of my new novel have been submitted to my editor. My agent loved it, but this doesn’t mean it’s “in the bag,” because my editor can still decide it’s worse than a trip to Summerfest and take a big fat pass. I’m hoping this one’s the charm, though. It’s got a tranny in it, for God’s sake.

And if you’re looking for a fun, breezy page-turner to read on your Kindle at the beach, check out my friend Malena Lott’s e-novella Life's a Beach. I didn’t read it at the beach, but it made the time waiting for my oil change and tire rotation that much more enjoyable. Malena’s a master of fun plot twists, and it's a steal at just $2.99.

Garden Mania

2011-07-06T10:13:00.012-05:00

Summer is in full-swing now, and the yard is popping. I have been out at night, wearing a headlamp as if I'm going to do a little coal mining in my front lawn, to battle earwigs and prove to my neighbors once and for all that I am slightly insane when it comes to my garden. More specifically, when it comes to preventing the zinnias and sunflowers I started by seed back in early April from being completely skeletonized by a swarm of disgusting brown bugs with PINCERS. (Yeah, I had to look up how to spell that. It looks weird, doesn't it?)

So let me take you on a tour of the garden. First we have little green clusters of cherry tomatoes. I am counting the days until I can harvest these babies, most of which are destined for slow-roasting and freezing so I can taste some sunshine in January.

Here we have the blossom of a Delicata squash plant. If you haven't tried Delicata squash, you must--it tastes a bit like corn on the cob: sweet, fragrant, creamy, and perfect with sage, brown sugar, and butter.

I don't know what the hell is going on in the next photo other than it's completely out of control. I have to lift this shit up with a heavy-duty stick so my husband can mow the 0.5 inches of lawn you see...when he gets to this section he calls, "Stick girl!" and I come running. I think next year I'm ripping up the lawn and replacing it with a creeping groundcover. I retire the stick and the jungle wins.

Below are the two hanging baskets that have been absolutely infested with aphids. I have hosed them off, sprayed them with clove and garlic oil, and hand-squished aphids until my fingers were sticky. I am currently awaiting shipment of a magical product called "Aphid Chaser," which consists of pheromone-treated rubber disks that attach to the plant and send an alarm message that scares the aphids enough that they stop eating and move on. Makes me wish someone would invent "Nacho Chaser," which I could snap onto my wrists like little bracelets so I'd be alarmed into putting the chips down.

Also, in case you think this sounds like magical nonsense, I used them last year and THEY WORKED.

The basil below will be turned into a delightful pesto by next week, after I buy a new food processor because my last one crapped out on me. It's hard to tell in this photo, but the basil bush is two and a half feet tall.

My first Mexican sunflower bloom! In another month this plant will be two feet taller, bushier, and covered in dark orange daisies. It's a bona-fide butterfly magnet.

And last but not least, one of the bunnies from the explosion of rabbits inhabiting my yard. One of them is so small he could fit in the palm of my hand. That little guy lives under my daylilies, and he's become quite fond of my ornamental peppers. I've lost a few plants to these adorable buns, but I can't stay mad at them for long. It's like the universe is laughing at me for the $100 baby bunny I drove to the rehabber two summers ago.

To protect my perennials, I have been sprinkling a disgusting product called "Rabbit Scram" around the perimeter of my beds. This product is made of blood meal, pepper, and ground, dehydrated meat. The last time I sprinkled it some poofed up and I accidentally inhaled it. I have been a vegetarian for nearly ten years, and all it takes is a few adorable but ravenous rabbits threatening my garden and there you have it. I'm snorting meat dust.

I'll have to do some before-and after photos in the next post, because I am completely amazed at the progress things have made in just three weeks. Until then, I'm revising my novel proposal. I hope to ship it off to my agent soon...fingers, toes, and eyes crossed!

Alright, Alright

2011-06-16T22:15:00.003-05:00

Oh man, the neglect! Let's just hope I never have to put you in a nursing home.

BUT! I have been feverishly writing, about to round the bend on 80 pages in the new novel. I'm obsessing about the characters, which is a good sign. I can't chop onions or get the mail without being struck by a snippet of dialogue or a turn of phrase that I must record IMMEDIATELY, dropping everything else I'm working on before I forget it.

Let's see...other things....picked up the first CSA box today (rhubarb, asparagus, early garlic, a decent portion of popcorn). We're also planning to gut and totally remodel our upstairs Bathroom of Horrors. Holmes on Homes could have a field day with that bathroom, and I promise a detailed "Before and After" photo essay on this blog when we get to that point.

My BFF asked if I'd be interested in running a 5K with her this August, and I had a candid conversation with my shins afterward: "Look. I'd really like to run this 5K, maybe shrink the waist just enough that I can fit into the capris I wore last summer. So you're going to have to suck it up and deal with the splints." But now that I think about it, maybe it can be avoided. Does anyone know a good preventative for shin splints? I seem to recall reading something about good running shoes, maybe some stretches, maybe drinking tart cherry juice before exercise.

Today while grocery shopping I ran into a guy I had a mild flirtation with in college. My cart was filled with fruits and veggies, and his cart contained a gallon of whole milk and two loaves of Wonder Bread. What kind of 40 year-old man still eats Wonder Bread? And still expects painless, regular bowel movements? I really dodged a bullet there.

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there! May all your ties be attractive. If not, may they at least be returnable.

Blog-hopping

2011-06-01T20:05:00.002-05:00

I'm blogging at the Girlfriends' Book Club today about staying motivated, getting out of the 'writing weeds,' and my favorite writing quotes. Stop by and say hi!

We Need More Schoolhouse Rock

2011-05-23T13:34:00.011-05:00

Having recently emerged from my busy grantwriting season relatively unscathed, I now have some time to update the blog. (Although there is still some work to do--today I spent some time on hold with the Department of Education. Do you know what I got to listen to while I was on hold? "Conjunction Junction." Yeah, they were playing old Schoolhouse Rock, those hipsters.)

We also hosted the Mystery Showing this Saturday with the lovely young woman who inquired about our house a few weeks ago. Do you know how weird it is to watch strangers measure your living room to see if their furniture will fit? Now we proceed to the even more awkward portion of the dance: "What's your asking price?" "Well, not to be coy about it, but what do you think it's worth?"

When I wasn't showing strangers around my house this weekend and feeling compelled to apologize for my home's flaws, I was spending time with my adorable nieces; I am convinced these little munchkins are partly to blame for my new cavity, what with their immeasurable sweetness.

Also, it's not nearly as cute, but the kitchen garden is in: chives, rosemary, marjoram, three kinds of tomatoes, radishes, kale, Swiss chard, mint, basil, sage, parsley, marigold, Texas Sage. I grew all but three from seed, and I marvel every time I look at the little guys that I didn't kill them.

I still have a few things in the greenhouse: I don't know what to do with my one remaining huge tomato plant. Anyone takers? It's a purple heirloom called "Black from Tula," and I grew it two years ago with much success--no cracking or blossom end rot, and it tasted great just sliced from the vine, still sun-warm, with just a shake of sea salt and pepper.

But the photo I'm happiest about is this one, taken by my friend Leeann at the Green Bay Barnes & Noble last week. She made my day in a serious way, and even got yelled at for snapping this pic. Tip of the hat to you, Fee! (Does Stephen Colbert have that phrase trademarked? I hope not...)
My next task is to do this all over again. I'm ten pages into the new project...290 more pages to go!

Events are Turning

2011-05-03T09:14:00.004-05:00

We were in Lansing, Michigan this past weekend for our adorable goddaughter's baptism--oh my goodness, she is the cutest little butterbean...I wanted to smuggle her back with me.

When we returned home we found a handwritten note in our front door from a woman possibly interested in buying our house. Wha???? She said her sister lives near us and she 'always admired' our house. So we set up a showing for the 21st. I've never shown a potential buyer through my house myself, but this gives us the opportunity to at least brace her for the upstairs bathroom as we ascend the stairs. A strange yet delightful turn of events.

There are just eight days until my next grant is due so I need to keep this short, but I want to share a cute story. My three year-old nephew spent some time with his grandmother (my Mom) this weekend. At one point he looked at her thoughtfully and asked, "Are you going to die someday?"

My mother laughed and replied, "Well, yes, we all die someday. But I won't die until I'm really old. How old do you think really old is?"

Corbeau thought for a minute. "Fifty-six."

My Mom turns 56 this August.

(The little vegetarian also asked during dinner, "How do you make meat?" To which my sister quickly answered, "You have to kill an animal." He didn't seem too upset by this. "We can just kill one, okay?")

The Only Good Filling is Cream Cheese

2011-04-27T14:14:00.001-05:00

I am swimming in grants right now but took time from my schedule to visit Emo Dentist this morning. Emo Dentist looks like Justin Bieber, only with a full head of gray hair. I saw him shopping at Festival Foods once and had to do a double-take (“Is that 40 year-old Justin Bieber? No, it’s just the guy who nags me to floss more.”)

My old dentist moved to Arizona two years ago and sold her business to a new team of dentists, and things have changed a bit. Now, I get to wear a pair of ugly sunglasses when I have my teeth cleaned. I suspect this is so I’m not blinded by the light that illuminates every stain and stipple of plaque. I’m always tempted to ask, “Does this mean my future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades?” And then my mild-mannered hygienist would probably spray me in the eye with a blast of air.

So this morning, after my hygienist told me I looked an awful lot like the fourth wife on Sisterwives and subjected me to my annual dose of radiation through an endless series of X-Rays, they found a suspicious, shadowy area between two of my teeth. Who knew that as you got older, your teeth developed sketchy alleys with busted streetlights and germy hooligans lurking behind the dumpsters?

Emo Dentist seemed a little gleeful about it all: “See what happens when you don’t floss? Now you get to pay some handsome out-of-pocket bullshit for a filling. What flavor do you want? Mercury or bisphenol-A? Brain or endocrine damage?”

(Damn you, Lazy Not-Flossing Jess!)

Anyway, despite the shadowy area that is either a cavity or hang-out for n’er do wells, the appointment was decent enough. The hygienist didn’t make my gums bleed, which is always a plus, and Emo Dentist hummed part of a Styx song while he examined my mouth. I’m going to assume he was just absently humming to whatever was streaming from the speakers above, because if he really is a Styx fan, I may have to sever the relationship.

I’ll be back to see Emo Dentist again in a month for my filling and more awkward small talk. In the meantime, I’ll be dragging my ass toward the finish line for my last grants of the season.

Yes, I Went There (to the Girlfriends Book Club)

2011-04-06T21:56:00.004-05:00

This week I'm blogging about censorship over at the Girlfriends' Book Club. Stop by and join the conversation!

Delisted

2011-03-26T17:52:00.009-05:00

I have mixed feelings about pulling The Hovel off the market. On the one hand, we won’t have to worry about where to stash the dog when realtors tour strangers through our freshly cleaned, sparkling-spotless house.

On the other, we won’t return home after realtors have toured strangers through our freshly cleaned, sparkling-spotless house to find what appears to be a giant, black pube on our white couch.

On the one hand, the most entertaining people in the neighborhood have been evicted or actually died—including our Hoverround-bound penis-splitter. Can you believe that? He really died! He hadn’t walked in ages, wore an adult diaper, chain-smoked, appeared to eat only fast food, and told us last August that he was diagnosed with a brain tumor and would be dead by November—but come on. I never thought that guy would die!

On the other, we still have Probable Pedophile who buys a case of beer at the corner liquor store every day, precariously balancing it on his lap as he peddles past our house—and no doubt more colorful characters will move into Hoverround’s old house as soon as it’s ready for rent.

On the one hand, I still won’t have room to plant a Big-Ass Garden or read in the backyard in private. And even though my city just approved urban chickens, my yard is still too damn small to get even one tiny silky Bantam I could name Checkers and train to peck “What a Feeling!” on a toy piano.

But on the other, there is a pear tree one block from me that bears the most delicious fruit. How do I know? Because one night, while walking home from a bar down the street (shut up—a friend had his 40^th birthday party there), I stole a few pears from their yard. I justified this because they were already on the lawn and probably would have just gone to waste.

Yes I ate them, and yes, they were delicious.

I need a moment to absorb the fact that I just publicly admitted to eating fallen fruit I stole from somebody’s yard.

Now that we are staying put, J and I are mentally preparing ourselves for some major remodeling projects on the second floor. The ultimate goal is to re-list the house in a few years and not have potential buyers shouting, “Mother of God, what is this abomination!” and sprinkling themselves with holy water when they see our second bathroom.

Also, to stop weeping in the shower because it is. That. Gross.

In happier news, the squirrels are nesting in the chimney again! I know because I can hear the rustling behind the bathroom wall while I’m curling my hair. Last spring I looked up one day to see five babies tumble out of the chimney, scamper across the roof, and leap into the nearest tree.

J is not as enamored with the squirrel babies as I am, but he is kind enough to indulge me and let them raise one more brood before he climbs up on the roof and fixes the chimney blocking-thing. He allows this because: A) he has a huge heart; B) they are not getting into the wiring, and any destruction they are wreaking behind the walls can be no worse than the bathroom’s current state; C) they are not rats; and D) he is married to someone who will cry over profiles on Petfinder or Adopt-us-kids, and he is not a fan of celibacy.

No doubt I’ll watch in horror while one of the baby squirrels is hit by a car in front of my house later this summer, but at least they had a chance, dammit. At least they had a chance.

This is not one of our baby squirrels, but one that somehow ended up wearing a plastic Easter egg bonnet near the school my brother teaches at. See? Totally cute!

And Now for Something That Doesn't Suck. Figuratively.

2011-03-15T20:08:00.012-05:00

Last fall I blogged about a neighborhood incident in which some jokesters placed a broken Kenmore vacuum cleaner on my front porch steps. Because I can be a terrible comment monitor, I didn't realize until months later that a sales rep from Sears had read my blog and graciously offered to send me a FREE Kenmore vacuum cleaner to erase any bad vibes the jokesters had inflicted.

It took me a few days to get over my suspicion before I emailed him to ask, "For reals, yo?"

And crazily enough, the answer was indeed, "For reals!"

Last Monday the brand-spanking new, totally FREE vacuum arrived on my front porch: a Kenmore Progressive canister with HEPA filter and pet hair attachment. Swoon! I had big plans for my darling new vacuum--I envisioned a "Spring cleaning!" blog giveaway / contest. Sort of a 'pay it forward' if you will, and I excitedly shared my idea with my mother...which she quickly squelched with:

"Well, you know your sister really needs a vacuum. I have to lug our vacuum to her place twice a month, an hour each way, up and down all those stairs..." Though I couldn't see my mother's face because we were on the phone, I knew exactly what expression she was wearing. We're talking about a woman who was once given a T-shirt for Christmas that read: "When it comes to guilt trips, I'm a frequent flier!"

D'oh. Ah, old Catholic guilt--I shake my fist at you!

Okay, my sister is awesome and her children have provided me countless hours of entertainment over the last three years, so she totally deserves it. My mother and I made the vacuum delivery this past Sunday. I had grand plans of photographing my niece and nephew posing adorably with the vacuum; unfortunately, Corbeau wouldn't cooperate. Grandma tried to show him how it's done:

At that point it occurred to us that my niece is too young to object to being photographed on a vacuum box, so my plan swung into action.

Why must they torture me so?

Of course, Corbeau's favorite thing about the new vacuum was the box. We spent (what felt like) hours packing him in the box, pretending not to know his whereabouts, and squealing with delight when he popped out. He called the game "butter," because who wouldn't associate a vacuum box with a pat of butter?

Adorable child not included.

After we assembled the vacuum and took it for a test spin, it became apparent that Corbeau was not a fan. Crying and screaming commenced because when it comes to loud noises and vacuum-related freak-outs, my dog has nothing on my nephew. Brilliant Grandma figured out how to reduce the noise setting, and Corbeau finally calmed down enough to try the vacuum himself. When he discovered that the cats hated it more than he initially had, another fabulous game was born: (Attempted) cat vacuuming!

Because my sister is incredibly thoughtful, she'd wrapped a sort of 'thank-you' gift for me--something she introduced with, "Now don't get too excited, it's really lame." (It's too bad she missed out on a career as an event emcee--she could have done well, don't you think?)

My gift turned out to be an electric stapler she'd gotten free as a bonus with a large art supply order for her students.

And here she is, multi-tasking and cleaning the shazaam out of her dining room. My sister was incredibly excited about the vacuum, repeatedly exclaiming, "Yaaay!" and "This is so awesome!" and already making feverish plans about vacuuming the curtains in summer, so as to reduce her allergies. I didn't have the heart to tell her that curtains could also be washed in the washing machine, because there's just something so thrilling about a new vacuum.

On the drive home my mother remarked, "Remember how messy her room used to be? Piles of clothes everywhere, water glasses balanced on the edges of dressers and tables...You'd never have guessed if you knew her in high school how thrilled she'd one day be about a vacuum."

(Thank you Sears / Kenmore!! You made our month.)

Luddite Love

2011-03-07T07:00:00.002-06:00

For some reason, I am wary of new technology. I’m not as bad as my Dad, who once memorably said to me, “What the f*ck is this … YOUTUBE … my students are talking about?” But bad nonetheless. I was among the last in my group of friends to get a cell phone. When I joined Facebook I did so warily, and continued to feel suspicious of it for a few years…at least until I recently acquired a new Android phone a few weeks ago, with instant access to updates, and all hope of productivity was lost.

Oh, and when I got that Android phone? Suspicious! I skittishly followed J around the Sprint store, dubiously testing some of the phones, convinced that there would be some big catch in the fine print that would somehow doom me to a life of indentured servitude to Steve Jobs. Or Bill Gates. Or anyone more technologically-savvy than me, really.

I kept one eyebrow up the whole time I was in the store: “Yeah, see? But what’s the catch, hmmmmm? Will this take naked pictures of me while I sleep and post them online? Will it give me cancer if I charge it too close to my head? What if I accidentally download an infected app that auto-tunes my voice every time I call my Grandma?”

Today my sister sent me an invitation to LinkedIn. Normally when I get these invites I delete them, dismissing it as just one more headache in the making—I was sure LinkedIn was somehow related to the “Acai Secret for a Flat Belly!” and “Mom discovers this one trick for white teeth!” ads you see all over Teh Internets. Years ago I accidentally put my contact information into one of those ads (for a mortgage rate quote), and I was barraged with calls that skeeved me out for months afterward.

Okay, it wasn’t accidental, it was stupid and on purpose, but still. Someone dear to me was also unwittingly ‘signed-up’ for a fee-based ringtone service after completing an IQ test on Facebook.

You just never know. Technology can be dangerous. Because while you are learning to use your new phone, you might also take an innocent but titillating picture of yourself right after photographing the hand-woven basket your sister made you for Christmas and then send the basket photo to your spouse and the titillating photo to your sister with the subject line, “Here’s your basket!”

You just. Never. Know.

Anyway, today’s request had my sister’s approval, so I signed up. Immediately, I was invited to connect with 195 people in one of my email address books. Uh-oh. Should I do it? Should I do it? What would this mean? I didn’t even recognize half the names that popped up.

The reckless side of me said ‘Screw it’ and pressed “Proceed into the Unknown!” I don’t let that side out to play often—especially during the day when there’s no Bottle of Bravery uncorked in the kitchen.

Instantly I started receiving emails from the people I just connected with, indicating that they accepted my connection. I nearly ran and hid under the bed like Daisy does during a thunderstorm.

I have no idea what it all means, and I continue to be suspicious of it. My eye is still twitching. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the Amish compound to have my abacus polished.

I Know Some of You Can Top This Story...

2011-03-03T10:57:00.004-06:00

How quickly can a three year-old morph from angel to devil?

We arrive to babysit. Corbeau, in a benevolent mood, grants us an encore performance of a show recently given with his Montessori classmates at school: “Kumbaya we are working, kumbaya we are peaceful, kumbaya we are reading, kumbaya we are loving…”

Sung gracefully to the tune you know, complete with hand gestures, but no pants. It was a pants-free performance.

Later, after lunch and the addition of pants: “Kumbaya we are naughty! Kumbaya we are bad! Kumbaya we are naughty!”

Shouted while jumping on the couch and pulling my hair.

I tried to hide my laughter. My sister gave Corbeau a time-out.

When you’re three, sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

Our little angel.

~~~~

FREE BOOKS: My dear friend Manic Mommy is hosting the most amazing book giveaway on her blog for the entire month of March. She's featuring 31 authors of women's fiction (including moi)--a different writer each day. Leave a comment on that day's post and you're entered to win the featured daily book. You're also entered in a giveaway at the end of the month to win all 31 books! Comment every day and increase your odds of winning.

She's featuring my own novel, DRIVING SIDEWAYS, tomorrow, Friday, March 4. So if you haven't yet read it, don't forget to stop by and leave a comment to be entered to win it--signed, even! (I heard it's a pretty good read...) Here's your destination: http://manicmommy.blogspot.com.

Like a Good Neighbor

2011-02-28T21:52:00.003-06:00

It’s amazing how much life can change in a matter of days. Here’s something fun: I’ve unintentionally lost a few pounds during this whole fiasco. Who knew that anxiously watching your beloved state devolve into a near civil war would be as good a weight-loss technique as having your jaw wired shut?

Given the fact that I will shortly be taking a pay cut to help cover a corporate tax break for Domino’s Pizza, we will be taking the hovel off the market and staying here for the foreseeable future. (Hiii-yo! Sorry. I really couldn’t help that. It just slipped out.)

So you know how we had some crazy-ass neighbors across the street for the last four years? Last fall they foreclosed on their house, walking away from all of their personal belongings: lawn furniture, mattresses, tricycles, lamps, desks, La-Z boy chairs, clothing. Five dump trucks hauled it away, including the mountain of debris they left in the driveway. (That second link takes you to one of my favorite scenes of all time. Seriously.)

Until a few days ago there was FOR SALE sign planted in their lawn, and of course we went online to see what our competition was asking. People. Check it. They bought that house for $125,000 back in 2005. The bank? Sold it for $40,000. Yowza.

The pictures told some of the story: mold on the walls, mysterious stains on the carpet, brand-spanking new bathroom sink and vanity because God only knows what they did to the last one, the garage service door left open all winter.

Even though they scared the hell out of me, I’m going to miss their strange friendliness. Never again will I have a Hoverround-bound neighbor who proudly tells my husband that he recently caught his catheter on something and tore his penis in half.

(Because you can’t see me through Teh Internets, I’ll just have to tell you that I have a lone tear slowly streaking down my cheek right now.)

This past weekend I witnessed another neighbor sell drugs to a blonde driving a tan Mercedes SUV. Well, okay, I didn’t watch the actual transaction so much as spy on her backing out of his driveway. She was just another in a parade of yuppies leaving his house in expensive cars that in no way, shape, or form resemble any of the actual vehicles driven by my neighbors.

I angrily scribbled her license plate number down, and then I had to wonder what the hell I was going to do with it. Track her down online and shovel “Just Say No!” into a snowdrift in her front yard?

Anyway, regardless of the tragic-comedic stylings in Wisconsin, spring is coming, and I have a few fun things up my sleeve. More on that in the weeks to come, so stay tuned!