wideeyedfunk

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One year and three months in the bathroom.

Published by wideeyedfunk

The WideEyedHousehold spent the last fifteen months without a bathroom door, shower, sink, or toilet more or less sequentially. This embarrassingly long duration of inconvenience was, of course, the fault of unadulterated laziness and winter ennui. In recent days we bootstrapped ourselves into finishing the job.

More than one year ago, the WideEyedSpouse got to picking at the paint peeling off the 104 year subway tiles (see: 6 Days in the Bathroom). He peeled up the cheap sticky tiles and cleaned pink mold from the antique hexagon tiles on the floor. He stripped spray paint from the tiles around the radiator. I stripped nine to fifteen coats of paint from the woodwork, primed, and repainted. I scraped and sanded the ceilings and walls, primed and repainted. We replaced the tub faucet and shower surround. I bought a new beveled mirror for the old medicine cabinet. I broke it. I bought another one and some glass for the shelves inside because I thought that would look nice. It does.

We found a 100 year old Empire reproduction bureau to stand in as the vanity. It had a 1930s St Louis bus token in it. And an envelope taped to the bottom of a drawer. We shook with excitement. It was empty. After months of looking at all, at ALL of the sinks online we bought the sink and faucet.

An exhaust fan went in, which necessitated some filthy attic labor. Blown in insulation has flaws.

We tore out the cheap vanity and whacked it with a sledge in the back yard. It exploded. We sorted through 500,000 used bathroom tiles at the Reuse store to find the 23 that were antique subway tiles. I think the Spouse caught the plague there. We tore out the (cracked) toilet. The old one had been held in place by insulfoam. If you know something about toilets, you’ll understand that the WideEyedDiningroom below was one scary flush away from…something unpalatable.

We scrubbed the tile walls with vinegar. We remasticked loose tiles, placed new (old, resued) tiles where some had disappeared over the years. Grouted. Miserable. I scrubbed the floor with an Oxyclean solution. It took days. I don’t like to think about what came up and I hope my gloves were thick enough. We remasticked loose tiles, placed new (old, resued) tiles where some had disappeared over the years. Grouted. Miserable.

The new toilet went in and it has a dual flush button: low water and more water. What luxury to not have to creep down the night dark steps to the halfbath. The new vanity, all waterproofed with coats of Waterlox, went in. Yes, I turned the fan on in a dog hairy and dusty room while the new varnish was drying. Let’s not talk about that. The Spouse remodeled the drawers to fit around the plumbing. I bought a tissue box caddy on etsy. I made curtains.

It sounds so simple, just listed out like that. It wasn’t. It stunk. Mostly it stunk. Shopping online wasn’t terrible. But the rest of it was filthy, even unsanitary, grueling, meticulous labor. Although it sure is clean now.

The moral of the story: don’t start peeling paint (or wallpaper for that matter) no matter how tempting the little loose bits look.

Woodstock ends his days.

Published by wideeyedfunk

Woodstock moved in with us Friday.

This evening he was sleeping on the rug in the front parlor.

Woodstock

Tibbit pretended not to notice.

Tibbit2

When she believed no one was watching, she sampled a small taste of Woodstock.

Tibbit1

Delicious.

Hamish interrupted the tasting, as he is of the opinion that that Woodstock flavors belong only to the elder dog.

Both1

Hamish spent a little time with Woodstock, lulling the little bird into a calm. Hamish says that Woodstock’s succulence is improved when the fear adrenaline no longer courses through Woodstock.

Hamish4

Don’t be fooled little Woodstock. Your time is nigh.

Generational Transmogrification: I am turning into my Grandma.

Published by wideeyedfunk

Earlier this week, I lounged on the sofa with a crackly plastic wrapped novel from the library, feet propped on the footstool, glass of iced tea to hand. My reading glasses were propped on the end of my nose. With my right hand I played the page turning game: flip flip flip past the corner of each page yet to be read – can I flip through all of the pages before I finish reading the page I am on? It is an annoying, compulsive habit I’ve had as long as I remember.

On my lap sat a bowl of popcorn. On the floor next to me a started but recently abandoned knitting project. The few completed rows of my new sweater looked good nestled next to the big ball of yarn in the bowl.

Then I had déjà vu. Except it wasn’t déjà vu, it was memory, long-buried, unsought. I had been a part this scene before and not because I spend part of every day lounging and reading. I stopped my page flipping, my popcorn munching and held myself completely still while I waited for it to bubble up.

It was Grandma Funk. The hairs on the back of my neck felt all tingly. I was Grandma Funk or at least acting an awful lot like her. I remember her letting me iron the sheets and her silk scarves while she lounged on the bed in her room, reading. I played on the rug on the floor near her while she sat reading on the loveseat in the TV room. I remember Grandma flip-flip-flipping the pages of her book with one finger, eating a snack, reading with a lumpy half-knitted thing abandoned nearby.

: Grandma Funk c. 1934 with the 1932 Chevrolet Deluxe Roadster. She was one year out of college, one year into marriage to an earlier WideEyedFunk. As a side note, you might want to consider the long history of car fever in the WideEyedFamily.

I realized I was wearing her jewelry, a solid silver cuff etched with wildflowers I haven’t taken off for 15 years or more. I was wearing one of her silk scarves. When the scarves came to me after she died, they still smelled of her Emeraude perfume. I didn’t wash them for years, left them in the box they were packed in so I could sniff my childhood every now and again.

Grandma Funk died when I was a kid, maybe I was 10 years old. I didn’t know her really at all. Now that I am turning into her, now that I have worn her jewelry and scarves for decades, I sort of wonder if we would have been friends. We might have had things to talk about. We might have had adventures that were more exciting than trips to the park where she read while I chased and was chased by the giant geese. Although that did raise my kiddie heart rate a bit.

I think I am turning into my Grandma Funk. I’m sort of ok with it.

The lunch that wasn’t.

Published by wideeyedfunk

I sat in the feeble 1970s conference room chair at the lab table in the front of the room yesterday late morning. I was managing the start of six lab projects involving data from Alaska to Western New York, spanning the past 3,000 years. Different student research groups and I trotted from lab to museum to department office to other lab to other lab – up and down steps, across streets, through countless locked doors.

And I was starving. Empty bellied, weird head buzzing weakness, tunnel-visioned hungry.

The WideEyedSpouse was home from work and I sent him an email, saying I wished I were there. He replied: “I wish you were home too. Then you could have some of my fried egg, fried ham and cheese sandwich!” – kindly attaching a picture.

I leaned in close to the laptop. I could feel the crusty toast, taste the salty ham. I think I drooled on the keyboard. Bing, another email from the WideEyedSpouse – “All gone,” it said, with an image attached.

I wept.

Sweet Tibbit’s Very Bad Day

Published by wideeyedfunk

She thought it was a great idea at the time. A remarkable opportunity even. How often is a dog left alone in the basement after all? As she snacked her way through the tasty cat box bites, Miss Tibbit savored the rewards of her momentary independence. The biggest, best bits gone, Sweet Tibbit thought she would have just one more nibble of the wheat cat litter. Delicious. She paused, licking her chops, and yes, perhaps one more sample. And another. Perhaps a bit more.

I admit, that part is recreative speculation based on observations taken during subsequent events.

The first hour after Tibbit was found in and removed from the basement, she couldn’t get comfortable. Her belly was too achingly full to lay down and she sat on the bed next to me awkward and tense, staring intently into the middle distance. I wondered then, did Miss Tibbit regret her feast?

I left for a couple of hours of work, where concentration was hard won as I imagined the messy horror Sweet Tibbit may have been producing. Returning home finally, I was relieved to see that all was well.

All wasn’t well. I simply remained ignorant of the coming storm.

Sweet Tibbit’s belly decided it had enough of the tasty little box treats and it evicted the partially digested material. Voluminously. Twice. On two separate rugs. The aroma was remarkable. It was an aggressively physical miasma that billowed out from the sloshy and disturbingly lumpy source puddles. The WideEyedSpouse retched helplessly as he cleaned the first puddle. Later I came across him retching over the second puddle as he prepared the steam cleaner. Again I wondered, does Miss Tibbit feel regret? Has she learned her lesson?

Feeling better and prancing around the house, Miss Tibbit decided she would like to spend some time in the yard. I was only too happy to oblige her. It was an elegant justification for removing myself from the event horizon. But then of course, Sweet Tibbit engaged in Stage 2 processes. Not nice. Not nice at all.

It is now two days later, and Sweet Tibbit apparently is empty. She is getting tired of bland rice for breakfast. Bland rice for dinner. Bland rice for snackies. She licks at the rice and rejects it as inedible. Which, given recent events, I find pretty amazing.

Did Miss Tibbit learn a lesson from her Very Bad Day?

Ten minutes ago I caught her doing preliminary investigations of the litter box while I was in the basement. Useless little black dog.

Budget Sequestration Made Me Eat Cheap Peanut Butter.

Published by wideeyedfunk

The WideEyedHousehold must make decisions about financial sequestering by prioritizing categories of expenditure. Just as our Senate is divided in debates about preferential priorities, so we are. Just as our nation must make difficult choices, so we must. “Compromise” in the WideEyedHousehold results in unpalatable solutions, as it does in our nation.

As you may know, I dreamed of an exotic winter break far from snowy Buffalo. Last week during spring break, we ate lunch at the Ikea just outside of Toronto for our international vacation. The basic parameters of an exotic, international locale with regional cuisine were met. They were met stupendously if the rumors about horsemeat in the Ikea meatballs are true. How intrepid of us to eat the little meat balls all unknowing, even with an unconcerned panache.

As you may know, the WideEyedSpouse likes beer. I like to eat. He feels that beer sort of is food. I feel that food is food. The Spouse prefers good beer. I prefer organic, limited ingredient, small batch peanut butter. Our preferential priorities battled at Wegman’s. The beer lobby won. I still got the peanut butter, but at radically reduced funding. Evidently the beer drinker’s lobby in the WideEyedSenate is far more powerful than the peanut butter eater’s lobby.

I fear for the next battle. I mean “compromise”.

No Dogs Allowed? Hamish the Corgi Finds a Way.

Published by wideeyedfunk

“Where are we going?” Hamish the Corgi asked as he watched me dig the hiking pack out of the coat closet. It wasn’t easy. Five months of hats, scarves, gloves, reusable bags, dog towels, and YakTrax had crammed themselves on top of it.

HamishSteps5 I looked over my shoulder and up the steps to look at Hamish. He stood in the hall, big ears perked wide and high. He was smiling. “Tifft Nature Preserve over by the lakeshore,” I told him. “Awesome,” he said, “that’s not mine yet.” He disappeared into the kitchen and I heard rummaging in the dog cupboard.

I yanked the day pack strap and slammed the closet door before all the other stuff escaped. I went up to the kitchen to fill my water bladder. Hamish was waiting by the sink with the dog hiking water bowl and dog water bottle. He looked from me to the treat bin on the counter, me to treat bin, me to treat bin. “Don’t forget to pack the go-go crunchies,” he reminded me, nudging my ankle with his nose.

“Oh no Hamish,” I looked down at him, “Tifft doesn’t allow dogs.”

“What?” he was outraged. “No dogs?” he couldn’t believe it.

“Nope. Sorry Little Man,” I screwed the lid on my water bladder and eased it into my pack. Hamish stared at me for a while longer, tilting his head left and right. His ears shot straight up and he trotted out of the room on his stubby Corgi legs. Clearly he had an Idea.

I was in the dining room fussing with the camera when Hamish bustled back 10 minutes later. He was carrying something Very Carefully in his mouth. He set it down next to my foot. “Whatcha got there Hamish?” I asked him absently, there was a smear on the lens that just wouldn’t give up.

“Will you please take this with you and squeeze out a few drops every couple of feet?” He asked. “Trees are best, but a good clump of grass is ok too.”

“What?” I peered down at the vessel bumping my foot. It was a translucent squeezey ketchup bottle, the kind you see in diners, and it was half full of a pale yellow fluid. I blinked at it. I wrinkled my brow. “Hamish, is that? Wait, what it that?” I asked as I leaned down to feel the temperature, yep, warm.

Hamish gave me his soft warm Corgi look. “Tifft can still be mine, even if I can’t go,” he explained. I shook my head. “Ok,” I said, sort of doubtful. “But I don’t know if it’ll work.” Hamish bounced out of the room to tell Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog.

It wasn’t until a few hours later that I wondered, as I dutifully dribbled the base of a nice big tree, how did Hamish with his stubby little legs fill that tall bottle? I shrugged to myself. Better to not think about it.

Australian Shiraz grapes make my teeth purple.

Published by wideeyedfunk

Italian Sangiovese grapes do not.

I’ll let you wonder about the testing program that was necessary to come to this conclusion.

Perhaps you should take a moment to cast your mind over the many other red wines that may, or may not, turn my teeth purple. I’ll test those too if you insist.

I also suggest that you think about the kind of week a person might be having to make such testing seem like a Good Idea.

My school bag smelled like the 1970s. Heh?

Published by wideeyedfunk

It was entirely accidental.

The WideEyedSpouse and I have been streaming the old Julia Childs off of the PBS website. They are rasty and sketchy and black and white. And in them, Julia wastes nothing. She made a French onion soup and tossed in the butts of the onions. I was aghast. I thought those were for the worm bin.

Another time she made a French tart crust. Pie crust to you and me, but she used a different technique, evidently a French one. What really caught my eye and stayed with me all through the week and into my errand run to Target, was her masterful use and reuse of waxed paper.

She made the crust dough and then wrapped it in waxed paper to chill in the fridge before rolling it out. Apparently this gives the gluten some time to relax. Whatever. Because it was t.v. and none of us had then or have now the time to sit around and chat with Julia over coffee while we waited for the dough to chill (unfortunate), she grabbed an already prepared and chilled dough mass out of the fridge.

It was half-ass wrapped in the wrinkliest mess of waxed paper I’ve even seen. Even Julia looked unnerved by it. She patted the mass once or twice as if that would smooth out the situation. That wax paper sheet looked like it had been wrapping pie dough lumps for a decade. And I thought, yeah, waxed paper.

So I bought some.

And I made a pbj to take to school for lunch and wrapped it in the waxed paper like a little present. Ends folded in on themselves all tidy like, clean creases. That pbj became a sandwich packet with dignity.

The waxed paper sandwich packet sat in my bag all morning during lab. The students diligently studied fish bones all around me and I prepared my lecture on bird bones while wafts of 1970s sandwich reek crossed my nose for hours.

At first I didn’t know why it was comforting or why I thought it was 1970s sandwich reek. I just kept sniffing near my bag and smiling. I clackety clacked away on my laptop and in a rush of odd recognition, I remembered that when I was a kid the WideEyedMom packed our school sandwiches in waxed paper bags. The bags had a little gusset and were just big enough to fold over the bread slices twice. The waxy pbj aroma wafted out of my kiddie lift up desk all morning, taunting me with lunch and recess ideas every time I went for a pencil.

My school bag reeked of the 1970s. And it was wonderful.

The tiresome collision of skeletons and snow.

Published by wideeyedfunk

Outside the lab window, above the human skeletons dangling from their cranial hooks, I could see the wind howling snow across the small Fimbulwintered quad. It looked horrible. I put my chin in my hand and gazed into the whirling wretched iciness and thought about a beach. A long, wide beach with nice medium sized waves and only a few other people around. The sun glared off the water and I could almost feel the heat. I sighed and imagined settling my shoulders deeper into the hot sand. It was great. I smiled.

I heard a faint, wah, wah, wah sound off to my right so I turned my head, idly wondering what it was.

Oh. It was one of the grad students in the lab. He was describing his research project to me. To get my input. Which I really wanted to give because I like that part of my job.

I tuned back in, sighing to myself.

I’m tired of winter.

Temperature at posting: 16 degrees F, light snow, wind ~15mph.