wideeyedfunk

Category: Home Improvement

If only owning a century home didn’t provide so many interesting surprises.

  • November Hoses

    The WideEyedSpouse is lying under the back porch with a heat gun. Miss-Tibbit-the-Useless-Little-Black-Dog is staring in wonderment. Crooked Hank, entering the third winter of his young life, believes it all to be nonsense.

    Tonight it will freeze and freeze hard. The hose stopcock is already frozen open. Probably bad things will happen in the coming arctic blast if it isn’t drained and closed. Boring, expensive things.

    Friends, don’t judge us here in the WideEyedHousehold! We started the snow thrower two days before this morning’s snow labor. I packed the Smooth Ride’s trunk go-bag last evening (winter coat, blanket, fruit leather, water vessel, plastic bag, cat litter, little shovel, and a Wawa Truck Pez pack). The Joan of Arctic Sorels are out and were  deployed this morning. The bomber hats undrawered last week.

    A person can only do so much to prepare before the wretched realization arrives – all that work is simply to endure winter. W I N T E R. I thought about tropical winters as I forcibly shoved the snow thrower through a densely packed mass of slush (bottom three inches) and snow (top several inches) this morning. Sure, the tropical summers are reaaaally hot what with climate change and all. But that snow thrower. It is a two stroke monster that WAAAAH BAP BAP BAPs in an unholy melody of miserableness and exhaust stink.

    I can hear movement downstairs. Perhaps the ClosedShutStopcock has been achieved. Yay.

    Crooked Hank has an opinion
    Crooked Hank. The Doubter.

  • What price frugality?

    I blame the following on heat stroke. And pain.

    (Read in the tone of drained awfulness.)

     

    One hour, two hours, three hours, four –

    I really don’t want to do any more.

    We scrape and we wash and we prime and we paint.

    We dangle from scaffolding until we are faint.

    Tibbit is hungry, Hamish is bored.

    The house is still green in one corner more.

     

    The garage lurks out back, all peeling and grim.

    I think we’ll be painting when the stars go dim.

     

    Twenty thousand dollars seemed a lot to pay.

    Maybe, we said, there’s a more economical way?

    Scaffolding, scrapers, and gallons of tint –

    Up to the soffits and bump outs we went.

     

    Lamentations and griping, match blisters and pain.

    If only, I think darkly, we’d have days of rain.

     

    (Sigh.)

     

    Would we do it all over? When the end is so near?

    Oh God we sure would.

    Sweat equity wins out when the cost is so high.

    We’d do it again, and ask ourselves whyyyyyy???

     

  • The interview ends with a worm.

    We’re here with Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit-the-useless-little-black-dog. It’s painting season again here at the WideEyedDomicile. The Bosses are up on the scaffolding along the northwest side this season, scraping and painting yet another architectural complexity.

    We asked Miss Tibbit what she thinks of the house painting activity.

    “Well,” she looked either thoughtful or vacant, it isn’t easy to tell, “it is really pretty boring. We just sit around in the yard. There’s not much to do.”

    Hamish looked sideways at her. “That’s a negative attitude.” Tibbit snorted. “Look at them up there,” Hamish waved his nose upward, “they stay in one place for hours at a time and I can keep my eye on them.”

    “Whatever,” Miss Tibbit seemed doubtful. She sniffed the air and “Hey, there’s a worm over there!” She spun on her hind legs and took off.

    “What??” Hamish ran after her.

    Another day, more of the house painted. We’ll check back in with the WideEyedHousehold next week.

    Dogs

  • High places

    Miss Tibbit and I stood in the rain eating black raspberries off the canes in the backyard. I reached high, Miss Tibbit plucked the low ones with her front nibble teeth. Their pure, rain-washed fruitiness is soothing my stomach after a feast of lamb vindaloo and chicken xacuti, samosas and deep-fried paneer at the Taj Grill. I can hear the rain pinging on the steel frame of the scaffolding. We should be painting. Monsoon-like rains and passing lightening storms make it impossible.

    Lion Stout from Sri Lanka. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.
    Lion Stout from Sri Lanka at the Taj Grill. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.

    The scaffolding arrived a week ago on a big rig. It traveled across country for 22 days to get here. Twenty feet of bright yellow painted tubular steel and mini-girders. So cheery. So horrifyingly high. From July 2 to July 5 we spent the daylight hours perched on Level 1 (6 feet), Level 2 (12 feet), Level 3 (18 feet) scraping, washing, priming. The husband of each neighboring household came to see. From my aerie they all looked the same: wide legged stance, arms crossed over the chest, head tilted back, mouth a little open. I think the WideEyedHousehold looks a little otherworldly up there with gangling arms and legs working on the small 2 by 6 feet platform – reaching out, over, up, to deal with the house’s overhanding soffit and decorative exposed rafters. The high roof and architectural details looked so cool (“badass” the Spouse says) when we bought the place. I didn’t think about spending days and days with them.

    SCaffolding 2
    The aerie in position.

    One set of neighbors had a party over the weekend. From my post up high I could smell the bbq, drinks, and perfume. The women’s dresses were a swirl of color. Kids laughed and played. The men kept easing around the corner of their house to peek at the scaffolding. I painted on primer during their cocktails. I painted through their dinner. I painted as they sat, idling with wine into the summer evening.

    WEF, up high.
    WEF, up high – and the ground crew.

    The WideEyedSpouse and I spelled each other in the high places. I don’t know what he thought about up there, but I started jealously guarding my time on Level 3. The breeze was nice. Voices faded to murmurs and traffic on the nearby Scajaquada Expressway rumbled at a deeper tone. Squirrels and birds chirping and chittering in the trees were my companions. I became nothing but arms attached to a paint scraper, or arms with a paint brush instead of a hand.

    “I can’t believe you are painting your own house,” WideEyedNeighborP said. “What else are we going to do all summer?” I said, “Sit around on the patio and drink?” I think when we are done I’ll install the scaffolding among the back yard maple trees. My own industrial tree-house. It’s possible I’m becoming weird.

  • Rain Delay

    We lost the Mini to car fever yesterday. The WideEyedSpouse struggled heroically for months. Yesterday he succumbed. Yesterday, a bright sunny day perfect for painting a century home, we spent in the air-conditioned comfort of a car dealer’s showroom. The Mini stayed there. We left to rearrange the snow shovels in the garage to fit the new WideEyedMobile. “Tomorrow we’ll work on the house all day,” the Spouse said, staring dreamily in at his new ride.

    But. Rain. Guilt-less, feck-less, fancy-free we fled the Homestead with our Niagara Wine Trail Passports (thanks WideEyedMLB!) in hand and turned left and right for an hour or more, heading east and north into rural western New York. We crossed and crisscrossed the Erie Canal. We skirted Lake Ontario. We saw old houses tumbling down, fixing up, and hovering undecided in a state of quasi-repair. Trucks and Chevys from oldy-time hid half under tarps – rusty butt ends sticking out. Kids played in puddles, trailers huddled in clusters on abandoned farm fields. We breathed deeply of non-city air and wallowed in the joy of the moment.

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  • Old House | Freedom Thief

    We had freedom once. We hiked. We rode mountain bikes. We visited antique shops and flea markets, clutching take-out lattes. We read the whole Sunday paper to fill the time before brunch.

    But our lives seemed empty. So we bought a house and fixed up it. Then we moved. Bought another house and fixed it up. Then we moved, to the biggest, oldest house yet.

    It must be painted. I do understand that there are professionals who do these things for you. For buckets of ducats. But the WideEyedSpouse and I sort of want to see what is happening on the house. Get a sense of coming maintenance. And, we want to run the 35 foot boom lift and stare down at the neighborhood from our lofty position.

    Yesterday we started.

    House Paint 2015 Day 1 tools

    We scraped. I washed with pre-painting detergent. No, I’m ok, it only burned a little when it dripped down my arms and off my elbows.

    House Paint 2015 Day 1 scrape

    House Paint 2015 Day 1 fresh coatWe painted. Creamy white. Deepest blue. We painted until 12 minutes after sunset, knowing that rains were coming and hoping for the necessary 1 hour dry time before the deluge. I worried over this and the Spouse told me, “The rain never comes from that direction anyway.”

    After one day of painting, the WidedEyedHouse is about 1/20th done. The torrential spring rains are, as you might expect, lashing against the newly painted walls. The paint is holding steady so far. The members of the WideEyedHousehold are huddled inside, nursing blisters and sore muscles and bruises. Desperately avoiding thoughts of 19 more 10 hour days of scraping and painting in the hot summer sun. Dreaming of lattes and brunches and aimless weekends.

    House Paint 2015 Day 1

  • Responsibility avoidance, Or, There are two kinds of spurs my friend.

    The grass in the back yard is long. Mowing has become critical.

    IMG_2093

    The new back stoop remains unfinished. The parts are in the garage, some assembly required. The new house colors, still undecided. Stripping the old paint, urgent.

    Stoop

    But it’s raining. 47 hundredths of an inch today so far in a long slow endless shower. Well now, that’s just too bad. All of the day’s chores were outside chores. Howsoever will I pass the time?

    RainGauge

    I’ll tell you how, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly and a lace knitting project. 178 minutes of men of poor moral character. Italian made cotton Tahki yarn in a peaceable spring leaf green, bamboo needles, and a simple leaf lace scarf pattern. A match made in work avoidance heaven.

    knitting

    I knit three, and watched Blondie shoot Tuco down from the gallows for the second time… “I’ll keep the money and you can have the rope”. Slipped one purlwise, knit two and passed slip stitch over while Tuco caught Blondie in his hotel room… “There are two kinds of spurs my friend. Those that come in by the door, and those that come in by the window.” Slip slip knit while Angel Eyes’ thug Wallace beat the name of the cemetery out of Tuco and the prison camp orchestra played.

    40 minutes of the movie to go, Tuco and Blondie are just about the blow the bridge, and I figure I can knit another 20 or 30 rows if I don’t get too caught up in the three way standoff over the grave.

  • Toilets, and I didn’t know my mom lurked in my head.

    I don’t know what it is about my neighborhood, but people swap out their toilets A Lot. At least once a month there’s a toilet sitting on the curb on our three block dog patrol. We’ve replaced a toilet or two around here, so I’m familiar with the brands and qualities of toilets on the market. I can tell by the empty new toilet box leaning against the old, abandoned toilet whether or not the home is 1) a rental, 2) being prepared for sale, or 3) a cared-for owner inhabited domicile.

    If the toilet is a brand I’ve never heard of, if the flush rating is listed as 4 or 5 rather than 10 – it’s a rental. If it is a good brand but lower end model, probably someone did a quick refurb to put a place on the market – you get the name but you aren’t out of pocket too much. There are a bunch of older folks in our neighborhood and as they sell up after 40 or 50 years, their bathrooms always get a quick shakedown: new toilet, stick on tile floors, paint (as we well know around here having eradicated a perk up with great labor). If the empty box is a Brand Name, Tall, Flush Rate 10, High Efficiency, Dual-Flush, Piston-pump Toilet, we’re talking an investment in comfort and trouble free use. That’s a homeowner friends.

    This all comes to mind because one block down, between our place and the park loop, someone has a toilet out to the curb. They’ve been in the house for about a year. I noticed that the old toilet is cracked on the base and is one of those old, small, low models. One of the ones that feel dangerously low once you are used to the Tall models. When out visiting and making use of the facilities, have you ever felt yourself dropping too far and panicked a little bit? Then you’ve got a tall boy at home and have run into an older low model. It’s uncomfortable and startling. I’m thinking of starting a Coalition to Remove All Potties that are Short (CRAPS) (heh.). Sorry.

    The point of all this is that I thought nothing of the commonplace sight of the neighbor’s toilet sitting on the curb. Until this morning. The sun was shining on Miss Tibbit’s glossy fur and Hamish was prancing along with his tail stump and head held high on our way to the park. The daffodils and earliest tulips seemed extra perky. It’s Easter and I imagined all kinds of little kids and families putting on their Easter finery and posing for pictures (like we used to do when I was little). I figured that almost everyone in the Eastern Time Zone was sick on candy by now.

    I saw the neighbor’s toilet and I heard my mind speaking in my WideEyedMom’s voice “Look at that toilet – and on Easter…” I even turned my head to roll my eyes at Hamish to share the disgrace. Trash the day before Easter, or say, the day after Easter, is just trash – not great but what are you going to do? On Easter? Crass.

    Funny how these things sneak up on you. You think you are your own person, only to discover your parents living inside your mind.

  • Saturday shopping list: Christmas tree, egg nog, Victor rat traps…

    “Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining,” I sang to myself while I smeared chunky peanut butter on the bait bar. I walked across the kitchen to peer out the back door. The snow was easing up a bit.

    I could smell the Frasier fir warming up in the living room. We had just bought it, half price because I guess you’re supposed to get your Christmas tree as soon as December hits and the local garden center was looking to liquidate their remaining tannenbäume. So, while the cut rate tree warmed up from the 15°F outdoor world to our balmy mid 60s living room, I loaded up the rat traps.

    “We’re ready here,” I called out to the WideEyedSpouse and bundled up for unpleasant outside conditions. We gathered up our shockingly large rat traps and headed out.

    “It is the night of the dear savior’s birth,” I sang as I crawled under the back deck, spider webs trailing from my Nome, Alaska ski hat with a goofy white pompom, nastiness clinging to my knees. Around the support posts, past the stack of old landscaping bricks, to the house foundation wall. “Ok,” I called over to the WideEyedSpouse. He handed a rat trap from the hatchway on the side of the deck, peanut butter waggling on the bait bar.

    “Long lay the world in sin and error pining, ‘til he appeared and the soul felt its worth,” I sang as I eased the trap bar back on its scary spring and carefully propped the lock lever into the bait bar notch. “Careful,” the Spouse murmured from his position in the hatch door, as though we were setting sensitive explosives. I slowly moved my hands away. Set.

    I scooted a few feet to the right, singing again, “A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!” Again, easy, easy, now, I pushed back the bar, set the lever and backed away.

    “Fall on your knees,” I sang loud and strong, unafraid of missing the notes because who was to hear me but the rat trying to dig into my foundation. I sort of was hoping I was the last thing he heard. I back crawled out from under the deck, singing more quietly to myself because I had to concentrate on missing the insect carcasses twirling in the little winds under the deck. “Oh hear the angel voices, Oh night divine, Oh night when Christ was born.”

    The Spouse helped me stand up when I hit the hatchway door – whistling oh holy night. We locked up the hatch door to keep the poochies out and stomped through the snow back to our Christmas tree.

    This morning we saw little rat tracks leading away from the house. I guess I really missed those high notes.

  • Home Renovation Made Possible by the 1970s.

    If Looking Glass had never recorded Brandy (my life, my love, and my lady is the seaaaaa), would I have been able rebuild and repair every half fixed house I’ve lived in for the past 15 years?

    If the Commodores didn’t make Brick House (She’s a brick-house. Mighty, mighty, just letting it all hang out), could I have boogied my way through edging uncountable ceilings on the top of a high ladder, among the fumes and echoes?

    How long could I have endured the paint striper chemical gloves without Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain (I bet you thought this color was pret-ty, pret-ty, you’re so tacky…)?

    The WideEyedSpouse hears the ocean rumbling and smells suntan lotion when we stream Big Joe Henry’s 1970s heavy show on New Jersey 101.5 or the itunes Best of the 1970s. The Spouse grew up in Ocean City, roasting in the summer sun, listening to pop music on transistor radios. Me? I hear sanders and smell sawdust because I grew up in old houses. I failed to learn from my youth and I still live in them. And for whatever reason, nothing I can articulate, Saturdays, and the 70s music are for home renovation.

    The roller rolls better to Poppa Was a Rolling Stone. The Midnight Train to Georgia makes me edge cleaner. The BeeGees make me sand harder, Fleetwood Mac sends me screaming from the room for a coffee break. And always, without fail, as soon as my hands are too junked up to touch the tech, the interminable ten hour (ok, minute) American Pie song comes on. “Long long time ago…” Bathroom break.

    Painting to the 80s doesn’t work. Sanding to the 90s, no good. Millennial music? Great in the car but it just doesn’t have that steady 70s underthrum that keeps a person working, when she’d really rather be lounging around eating snacks and reading novels.

    paintingThe WideEyedSpouse and I finished a painting project last weekend. A urine-y yellow upstairs foyers is now a glowing Rock Candy (Sherwin Williams #6231) grey. We edged three layers of paint around nine doors and one ceiling. We rolled the tiny flat spaces between walls. We boogied through it with help of the 70s and my magic painter’s pants. And maybe some beer.