Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel

We have this delightful new shower in our master bathroom.

Or rather, we now have a bathroom with a shower, and it is new.

I cannot figure out how to take a non-glarey picture of it. Because with the lights off, it is dark and grainy. Anyway. For now you get the idea.

For seven years the tub in our bathroom didn't work, and as we approached home renovations on a most-to-least-crisisy basis--starting with lack of kitchen on the ground floor, lead pipes, cloth covered wiring, and rotting walls and floors and things of that nature.

We had other places to bathe in the house. So we viewed ours, decrepit as it was, as last priority.

And when we did the bathroom, we did it up big. I bought a spectacular mural from my friend Christine at William Morris Tile.

I have many things to say about it, and it deserves a separate post, so I won't get into it here. But it is beautiful and really interesting.

As for the house, I'd like to say that after seven years we are actually done. We are mostly done.

The fourth floor (or floh floh, as India calls it) is where we basically lived our first year here. It has had no renovations. One day we will have to. But not now. The leaks are stanched, for the time being.

Until a month ago, Nick spent seven years bathing and dressing up there daily. Without exaggeration, he caulked the upstairs tub weekly.

There is dangerous old caulk. But is there ever such a thing as too much caulk?

I dunno. But I think we can agree that seven years of caulk is a lot of caulk.

Anyway.

We now have this super duper awesomely beautiful shower with multiple shower heads. One side is for Nick, and the shower head is like 8 feet in the air. And the other side is for me. And they each have a hand held component.

Now the kids and I shower together a lot, which saves time and is actually something they get enthused about. They like the separate showers, the room to play, and the fact that they get to squeegee the glass walls.

It is perfect. Everyone has enough water, and I can have mine scalding hot and don't have to tepidize it for anyone.

There is plenty of room, but it's still a shower. We're in reasonably close quarters.

Last week, India reached up, put her little hands on my boobs, and tried to push them up.

I said, "Whatcha doing, India?"

And she said, "I'm trying to help them. Why don't your boobs stay up, Mama?"

I bit my tongue, thought I was tempted to launch into a whole thing about babies and nursing and how really, mine stayed up just fine before. And actually, it was all their fault.

Before I could say anything she said, "You know. Nana's boobs don't stay up either."

And there you have it.

And I still can't get Nick to call me Khaleesi

After nearly six years in our house, we decided it was time for a kitchen back splash.

I'd never given any thought to a back splash. I didn't have one in my condo. I'm not overly observant, and didn't used to pay much attention to architectural details.

So it could be that the numerous apartments I'd rented over the years had one. Or maybe they didn't.

But you want a back splash, it turns out, so that when you splash things on the wall behind the sink or stove, you can wipe them right off. Like red wine, for example. Not a good splash.

Plus these back splashes, they can be pretty.

I'd never looked for tile before, so when Australian Builder took me to a tile place I was a little overwhelmed.

After 45 different attempts, I found a very pretty marble mosaic that I thought would do nicely.

They did the square footage and it turned out to cost oh, approximately 8 kabillion dollars.

At that point I actually started thinking about what I wanted. Like, about what fit our house and personality. (You'd think you'd start with that, and why do I never, ever start at the actual reasonable beginning?)

We have a Victorian house, so I started googling Victorian tile. Do you know about the Arts and Crafts Movement? I certainly didn't. But I'm now completely in love with so many designs from that era. Eventually I came across William Morris Tile.

The first thing I saw was this William De Morgan Persian dragon tile. Isn't he lovely? Or maybe she? I dunno. In any case, I now have two of him/her.

I contacted Christine, the owner/artist, who said she'd be delighted to talk tile with me.

Her original dragon set had 13. I asked if I could order 15, and she said, "Yes, but I wouldn't want you to have to do repeats. So let me consult my medieval bestiary and come up with a couple more."

She had me at Let me consult my medieval bestiary.

This is a phrase I hope to use one day.

So I bought a bunch of dragons and then set about choosing matching field tile. And then you need to choose a complimentary grout color and matching caulk (heh). So many decisions!

Christine said, "Don't pick light beige matching grout or it'll look like a summer camp project." So we picked a light silver. I think it's kind of perfect.

The project started in February with walls being ripped open and under cabinet lights being installed and then walls patched with white stuff but not actually repainted because we were going to tile in like 10 minutes!

So there was this loooong span of time in which Australian Builder was in Australia and then way too busy. And the walls were splotchy yellow and white with maybe an extra splash! or two. The situation deteriorated rapidly, is what I'm saying.

During this time, Christine made more dragons, and dangled them in front of me. Turns out I'm a sucker for a pretty dragon.

And in fact, she has so many delightful tiles that I love that I've been looking for other tiling opportunities. Eventually we're going to put these fantastical birds on a fireplace. And might we tile the sofa, for example, Nick?

Because they are just awesome and I love them so much and really, how can you have too many dragons, Betty bought me six more. Australian Builder was worried we had too many, and we'd be overwhelmed with dragons. But in the end, they all spaced well, don't you think?

We did wind up repeating two of them, which I think was perfect.

Christine very kindly gave me an extra dragon because she said that the Horus Deliciarum really ought to go with the 10-horned Apocalypse Dragon from the Lieber Floridus, and I hadn't ordered her.

There they are pictured below on either side of the switch that needs something done to the wiring, apparently. Nick said the wires got squozen when they got put back in.

India calls the one on the right of the outlet Lady Princess Dragon. Although I assume she's more of a queen.

I'm going to risk boring you by putting up the whole kitchen.

Here's the other side:

Sorry for my not-great photography skills. And hey, here's a used pan on my stove!

The flying gecko dragon on the end, uh, above the gin, is one of Nick's favorites.

In fact, we all have our favorites and when people come over, I love to hear theirs, and their reasons for it. Pretty sure I've weirded out at least one guest with my insistence on talking about them.

I love this basilisk dearly, mainly because his face reminds me of my dog Gloria's. OK, so technically they're not all dragons. They're more like fantastic beasts, I suppose.

India's favorite is the Japanese Baku, because it eats bad dreams. Christine said we needed a Baku, whether we got the tile or not. And who wouldn't want their bad dreams eaten?

A couple people suggested it sounded unusual when I told them that we were tiling our kitchen with dragons.

But I am just fine with being unusual, and I am super in love with them.

Just a wee little caulk problem

So now, after six years, we're finally installing a backsplash in our kitchen.

It's going to be amazing and I will absolutely take pictures and blog about it because we're going to have a bunch of dragons sprinkled throughout the kitchen and I'm seriously in love with them.

And speaking of dragons, Game of Thrones has killed me. Killed me dead. But that's a whole nother topic.

Because the issue at hand is caulk. (I mean, isn't it always?)

This morning we got a pallet delivered from the tile store with all the field tiles and necessary supplies. The very nice delivery guy opened the plastic to go through all the items with me before having me sign the paperwork.

So all the boxes of tile were there. The unsanded grout in the proper color. The side pieces. The...

"Hey, wait a second. Let me take a look at the caulk. It looks a little bent."

"Oh?" I said this with a straight face.

He took it out of the plastic wrap, shaking his head.  He inspected it and said, "This is no good. You'll need a new one. See this?"

The way it had been wrapped had left the top vulnerable, it seems, and so the squeezy-outy part was broken. He added, though I asked for no explanation, "I used to work with caulk."
I nodded solemnly.

He said he'd call it in once he got back in the truck and have them send me a new one. About five minutes later he called to apologize and say I'd have to report it to customer service myself. He's new to this tile delivery company.


This led me to assume the caulk company, uh, handled things differently.

He said, "Just call and tell them your caulk was broken. They'll send you one immediately."

I thanked him for his diligence and help and called the tile company. I explained my problem with the tip of my caulk and how the delivery guy said it would be unusable. I got put on hold and transferred.

The next customer service person got on the line and said, "Hi! Are you the one with the broken caulk?"

(Breathe, Lisa, breathe.)

"Yes. Everything else was perfect. Just, you know, this little caulk problem."

Couldn't resist.

But I see your true colors shining through...

Over the last couple weeks I wanted to reach out to you good people of the Internet and say please! Please help me with color! Because help!

As I said yesterday, we've fixed a couple walls in our bedroom, and decided to paint. Nick said I could really splash out with color if I wanted. Try something bold. Because within the year, we will be fixing the whole room, so if we want to change the paint at that point, we can.

So I chose these colors. And I asked a friend who dropped by just at the right moment, who said, with the caveat that he is about to put up textured grey wallpaper, they seemed kind of Crayola bright. Which, you know, was kind of true. And also kind of why I liked them.

But I didn't want to paint and then be annoyed with the color. Would the cobalt be too dark and kind of oppressive? Would a fuchsia room feel like you were inside a vagina? (And if so, is that good or bad?)

I agonized. Choose one and try? Pick others entirely?

When I don't know what to do, I don't do anything. I get paralyzed. I work best when I have three choices of anything ever. Pick A, B, or C. I'd probably have been married long ago if that were the case. Also if I liked Will Ferrell.

Anyway.

Nick kept saying, "It's only paint! Just pick one! But not this one - too dark. And I don't like that one."

I didn't choose. Nick, who hates indecision and has a much lower tolerance for ambiguity than I, got impatient. He abhors loose ends.

And I wasn't about to let the color blind guy just pick a color.

He once bought a spendy ceiling lamp that he knew I disliked because he just couldn't stand the lack of ceiling lamp in the dining room. I gave in because it was easier than dealing with his agitation.

It's now in another room and he regularly mentions how nice it looks in there and waits for me to agree. And I agree that it looks better there. But I agree in such a way as to make clear that I still dislike the lamp.

It is the lighting of my discontent. 

So I went to Home Depot, got three more swatches of colors I liked, and he picked two and put them behind his back for me to choose. I did.

And then I hesitated, and when he asked why, I said, "Because this color feels predictable. It might be too subtle."

"Lisa," he said. "Predictable and subtle would be tan or cream. You are the only person in the world who thinks this color is either predictable or subtle."

So here is the wall color as it currently stands.

It is hard to tell with the darkness and the covered windows. Although I do think the sunlight through the shopping bag is reminiscent of stained glass, no? I mean in a very low-budget sort of way?

I like it, but I wonder if it's too masculine.

And then I stop and ask myself, am I the only person in the world who thinks that as well?

Yah. So I hate to tell you we're considering repainting our kitchen.

Fruit flies like a banana and other things

One day it's almost Christmas and the next thing you know it a whole new year has gotten underway.

Time flies!

I had a linguistics professor who liked to talk about the trickiness of language. He'd say, "Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana."

We had a lovely tree - I mean, we always have a lovely tree, the same lovely tree. Right now it's packed away under the stairs. But while it was up, it was a thing of beauty and joy. And a source of endless entertainment for the children.

And then suddenly Christmas was over and New Years was over and then we took all the decorations off. We don't acquire new decorations very often, so when you come across a new one, it is noteable.

Particularly if it's this one, which gave my mother pause.

Let me be clear: it arrived in the mail unannounced, unsolicited. I have my pretty-much confirmed suspicions on who sent it, however.

We also had blinds last year, and then they went away, as did the cracked and rotting trim around them. But since I am a princess and the pea sleeper with regard to light, it was a bit of a crisis.

Until I got out the tin foil and paper bags.

Behold! This is my DIY blind project, to which I am subjecting the neighbors for another couple weeks.

 Classy, I know. But so delightfully dark at night.

And since the window frames were getting fixed, we decided to have two walls of our room fixed as well. And then we needed a paint color. Nick gave me free reign.

I chose these.

Nick said I could have the fuchsia if I really reeeeeaaaaallly wanted it. But it seemed a kind of unfair thing to do to him. One day I will have a room of my own, and it will be fuchsia.

India may or may not have strep - still haven't gotten culture results.

I took her to urgent care on Friday, and as I was filling out the paperwork with her symptoms: fever, headache, nosebleed...she threw up all over the floor. So I added vomiting as a symptom.

When there is vomit involved, people move right quick. This bumped us up from two-hour wait to next, which was still 30 minutes, but I was very grateful.

Because she kept having a fever, we started her on antibiotics. She's much much better but still low key. And by now she's gotten very used to ringing her little bell and having the servants come running with juice and popsicles and such. 

Next thing you know, she'll be requesting a palanquin.

Because caulk never gets old

I mean, talking about caulk never gets old.

Because there is, of course, that terrible caulk problem from schools built between the 1950s and 70s. The deadly, deadly caulk! The toxic caulk!

Old caulk, it turns out, can be a problem.

So yesterday Nick went off to the hardware store and returned with, among other things, a big tube of caulk sticking out of the pocket of his pants.

Because of course, our up-upstairs bathroom is currently being held together with caulk. Nick intends to just keep caulking the crap out of it until we can get the whole thing redone.

We should buy stock in caulk. Caulk stock.

I was standing in front of our house with several neighbors. We were amassing our kids to go to the park and enjoy the lovely weather.

So the caulk. How can one resist? And then once you begin with, "Is that caulk in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" how can you not continue?

The answer is: I do not know.

In other words, there was a lot of caulk talk. So much caulk talk.

I cannot contain myself.

That is me, faced with caulk. Just like those poor schools and their PCBs.

Uncontainable.

An everyone update

India: India already has very strong preferences in clothing. The bad part is that it makes getting her dressed more complicated.

The good? She does seem to have her mother's taste. I'd have worn this entire outfit that in a heartbeat. Different shoes, though. Boots, even.

(Which reminds me: is she too young for boots? I do love them so...)

In fact, she has strong preferences in everything. She knows how to say, "no" - oh boy, does she know no. But she doesn't know yes - she just nods her head up and down emphatically.

I used to be able to sing almost whatever I chose while putting her to bed, but now, with her head on my shoulder, when I start something she doesn't want, she'll say "No. No. No."

I know that it's not my terrible voice or inability to carry a tune, as there are songs she does want me to sing. They do not, sadly, include Copacabana or Rhinestone Cowboy.

I'm basically down to ABC in English and Spanish. Or, "Ahbede" and "Yega," respectively.

---

Jordan: Contrary to the Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now look on his face, he was deeeeelighted about the scarf, and he loves stripes. He just struggles to find an appropriate face for a staged photo. Our options, unless I catch him off guard, seem to be eyes squinched and looking pained, or constipated, or melancholy.

Lately when I pick Jordan up from school we stay and he and a variety of kids his age run around like lunatics and climb on the jungle gym and generally have a great time and burn off a lot of energy.

It's been terrific for me, as I've gotten to know some interesting parents, and I get to see my son interacting with other kids while completely forgetting that I'm around. He's just himself, and he's exuberant.

There are two girls that he often plays with  - they chase and crash into each other on the slide and such. I asked their names and he said, "Kemaly." (Could be Kimberly? It took me the longest time to figure out that "Anthy" was Nancy.)

"What's her sister's name?"

"Kemaly."

"They're both named Kemaly?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yes." He says this without hesitation.

I'm dubious.

---

Nana: Betty has her little rounds she makes in the neighborhood, and as such stops in at a couple stores and the dry cleaner at least several times a week. We have a nice little community here, and I didn't even realize how much of one until yesterday.

The woman who works at our dry cleaner called Nick in a panic, as Betty had fainted while she was standing at the counter. Jordan and I sprinted there from the playground, and found the woman who works there almost in tears, and Betty sitting shakily on a chair.

So we spent yesterday evening at the ER. It turns out she wasn't getting enough blood to her brain, which they think is due to her severe anemia, which they have been treating with iron, but her blood levels are still very low.

She has a special scan already scheduled for next week, as she has a weird clump of blood vessels growing somewhere in her lower intestine. They're hoping to locate and remove them, as they think that they're the cause of the anemia.

On a side bar: that ER doctor that I went on a few Match dates all those years ago with was totally right; Sibley's ER is where you want to go. (Except, he said, for a gunshot wound. Then you're better off at GW).

But for the more prosaic emergencies, head to Sibley for sure. No 6-hour wait. So fast. So nice.

---

Nick: Nick has been working a ton, which is really not out of the ordinary.

But when he's home, he's begun spending more time with India, and she's realized that Daddy is Magic. Oh, and Mama is Chopped Liver When Daddy's Around. As her previously-favorite person, this makes me feel not so great.

There's no subtlety with kids, is there?

This has, however, coincided with her toilet fascination, and in that regard, I'm OK with Chopped Liver status. Because Nick's previously-private morning bathroom activities have all gone to hell, what with India insisting on sitting on Daddy's lap as he reads her a book while also attempting to have a bowel movement.

This is one instance in which Jordan, who is also up with them, definitely does not compete for lap time.

---

Me: I have to say that my trainer was right (thanks, Vic!) and that the no alcohol business will flatten your stomach like nobody's business.

Also, Nick and I are both sleeping better and generally feeling healthier all around.

It's weird: I really struggled in the beginning, but now it just feels like a habit I've broken. This is not to say that I won't enjoy drinks over the holidays, but I'm glad to have broken the nightly cycle we were in.

In fact, Nick had a celebratory glass of wine the other night as he settled a hard case, and while I totally supported him doing so, I was cool not participating. Whereas before, we'd have each had one, then another.

I've fallen off the working-out wagon, and so I'm trying to shove that habit back to the forefront. I've also gotten very little done on the writing, what with the inability to concentrate and such.

It's all an endless juggle, really.

---

And speaking of holidays, which are almost upon us: One, this year I am organized in terms of our holiday card and already have it in hand. It is one of those way too many pictures of your children kind that people might make fun of you for, but I do not care. I absolutely love it.

(Now to not waste my uncharacteristic organizedness and address and send them on time...)

And two, I love hosting a big Christmas party in December (you know how I have the excellent taste in people and all, which makes for a good party), but this year I do not have the wherewithal for a variety of reasons. While I've started feeling better, we've also begun fixing the flooded walls and ceilings. I cannot handle construction and entertaining together.

And! December starts Thanksgiving weekend. The hell?

So! I've decided we'll have a party in January or February when very few people are entertaining and we need something to sparkle us during the grimmy grim grim slog through winter.

No. They live this way.

Australian Builder asked me last week if I remembered the Mt. Pleasant drive-by shooter from the early 90s. And I immediately said yes.

He actually played an important role in our lives, in a weird way.

So this confluence of things has had me thinking about living in my first apartment with Maude.

That conversation plus state of our house - and telling people who haven't seen the house in it's normal state that we're living with all these open walls and ceilings and plastic and waiting...but it's fine living like this (which is true)...

And most importantly, seeing Maude recently, who added a detail to the story of the night of her almost-rape....

Because, like my farting-on-the-plane incident, this is one of our stories, to be repeated forward forever and ever.

I've written about this before, but instead of sending you back and forth, I'm just going re-tell it here, because I believe I'm a better storyteller than seven (yes, almost seven!) years ago.

So. Here you go.

Way back right after college, my friend Maude and I lived in this sketchy apartment in Mt. Pleasant, back when the neighborhood was considered marginal.

I had an entry-level job at a non-profit and Maude worked at a day care, and $700 rent was about what we could swing. We had a slum lord whose name I cannot remember; Lyrae, who lived with us the first summer, named him Mr. Mostaccioli, and that's what's stuck in my mind.

The wonderful neighbors, the fun parties, the furniture acquired from the curb, the bodegas that sold the flavors of Tang Maude and I grew up with, Mr. Mostaccioli, the drive-by shooter, the rapist.

So.

During the spring of 1993, there was a drive-by shooter on the loose, and, it turned out, a serial rapist, who ultimately broke into our apartment and attacked Maude.

We had lived in our apartment almost a year. We were both, to put it mildly, rather casual housekeepers. Which is to say, our place was always a wreck. Piles of clothes, piles of books, newspapers, mail.

We weren't hoarders. We just weren't tidy. 

That night, I wasn't home, because my brother, who was visiting, and I were at the house of friends until late. Somewhere around midnight we called to say we were sleeping there because we were afraid of being shot on the street coming home that late.

I do not exaggerate here. It was a scary time.

Maude. Maude had fortunately dozed off in a big comfy chair waiting for her in-a-band boyfriend, and at 3:00 am awoke to a half-naked man about to put one of my sweaters over her face. He'd found it on the floor. Which, as mentioned, is where we tended to keep much of our clothing.

The half-naked was his M.O. He left his boxers at every scene.

Kind of an expensive habit, actually.

We were shocked that the police weren't interested in taking the boxers, although this was prior to DNA evidence, Nick has since pointed out.

And the police didn't jump at Maude's band-boyfriend's suggestion that since each person has a personal smell, wouldn't they want to take them to maybe match the smell when they ultimately caught the guy?

(Look. He was very cute, and in a band.)

It is that night, past 3:00 am. Maude is asleep in the big squishy chair in the front. The chair that makes it impossible for anyone to get a good grip on her.

Serial rapist, we later come to understand, has been watching our apartment. He knows to climb over the wall in the back. To stack up bricks high enough to get to the back window. He is thin enough to fit under the bars. He is strong enough to break the flimsy lock.

He undresses in the back, which is Maude's bedroom, leaves his boxers in the bathroom on the way to the living room in the front.

Our living room lights are on, because Maude was up reading while she was waiting.

Maude awoke, she says, not because she heard anything. She just sensed a presence.

And when she saw the guy and the sweater - a black alpaca cardigan - she immediately began to scream very loudly. She screamed and struggled and he hit her and tried very hard to subdue her but to no avail.

She is tough.

Our walls were thin, and our neighbors were good friends, and they heard her and called 911 immediately.

And this is where the drive-by shooter is important.

The rapist knew that because of the drive-by shooter, the police were all over our neighborhood. They were a block or so away when this happened, in fact. He knew there would be a cop nearby. So when he could not subdue her, he stopped attacking and ran.

It turned out, once he was caught, that his girlfriend lived in the neighborhood. He knew it well.

A police officer arrived almost immediately, walked in, looked around at the chaos of the living room: clothing strewn about, books on the floor, general calamity. He did a double take.

"Did HE do this?!!?"

Maude said, "Uh, no. We live like this."

This is the story I know by heart.

What I didn't know was the following. Minutes later, more police arrived. The next one to walk in looked around and began, "Did HE do this?!!?"

To which the first officer drily replied, "No. They live this way."

The state of the house

Some of you have been wondering about the state of our house, and if it's all back to normal.

So I thought I'd just give you a little update. In a word: NO.

We are waiting for two things: one, for Australian Builder to have time to fix these things, and also for us to summon up the fortitude to live through top-to-bottom construction again.

The one thing I think is cool is that you can see some very old wallpaper at the very top of the dining room wall. I'd actually like to get a better look, but of course I'm not up for ripping out more plaster.

It looks worse than it is to live with, except for the fact that my mother has a big rack of clothes in her sitting room because there's no point in putting them back in the closet with just a plastic wall between it and the hallway right now.

I also find it rather interesting to see some of the innards of the house.

Not so interesting that I'd have chosen this.

But now that it's all dry and there's no urgency, it's really not that bad. Just not so pretty.

Don't worry, neighbors. Mine is imaginary, and Nick isn't playing.

So, before the watermageddon that befell us just over a week ago, we got this lovely new addition to our home.

Plantation shutters.

If you've known me a while, you know that this makes me giggle and mutter things like, "Hellooo! Penis penis penis!" under my breath.

And if you haven't known me a while, well, now you know.

So, hey. It's Monday, and there's something wrong with me. But I'm pretty sure they'll become just plain normal soon.

Me, on the other hand? Ha.

This is reality, Greg.

I don't know if you remember the movie E.T.? Apparently it just played at Screen on the Green, and it would've been a delight to sit outside and watch it.

And I bring it up because our house has gotten very E.T. towards the end, when the Feds discover that Eliot has an alien at his house and they quarantine it and cover it in plastic and there are all these tubes and machines and such.

You know, I know how that movie ends, and still I sob when it looks like he's going to die, and I get all panicked when they are trying to escape. I do not know why this is, but it is so.

In any case.

That's the second floor room that India used to sleep in, which the elevator goes through. The part of the closet that hasn't fallen in or been pulled off will basically be ripped out. We're hoping the floor isn't ruined. We've already thrown out half the closet contents and are washing or dry cleaning the rest.

The photo below is Betty's room. Thankfully, she's visiting Maude's parents. Because she wouldn't be able to get to the elevator. And you can't use the stairs, because they're blocked off on the ground floor (top picture).

We have a plastic areas on every floor, and gigantor fans and dehumidifiers that suck 16 gallons of water per hour! This I find very impressive, I don't know why.

I have lots more pictures I was going to post, but then I was like, do they need to see every damn room and hallway with plastic and tubing and a big water sucky machine?

Anyway. Let me sum up.

Some of you may recall how we moved in just over four years ago and immediately commenced construction and really only got done with indoor construction, what, right before India was born?

I mean, now Jordan is almost four and has basically grown up with Australian Builder and Hector Big Wood.

So. We went away for five days. Last Wednesday to Sunday. We so rarely go away, almost never for that long.  But we did. All of us. We went to Nick's work retreat, and Betty went to Vermont.

And during that time, the AC on the fourth floor backed up and flooded. Soaked through the floor, through the wall, through my mom's closet, through what used to be the nursery closet (which, being one of our only closets, was packed to the gills with coats, comforter, clothes, stuff), through another wall, through the dining room ceiling, and down to the dining room floor.

Water turns out to be very terrible, even if it's not a tsunami. Fuckity fuck, basically. It is a giant fucking disaster.

That said, nothing bad befell any of us, and honestly, it's only money and stuff and a big hassle. We have too much stuff. But we can always use more hassle.

Also, everyone we have dealt with, except the initial claims people, who were the ones who broke the news about how our agent snuck in a whopping deductible, has been lovely. Totally professional and very pleasant. The appraiser and all the water mitigation people have been fantastic.

Which is good, because they've spent a lot of time with us lately, and it doesn't look like their visits are going to end anytime soon. The asbestos-checker arrives at 7:00 am tomorrow, the water mitigation fellows arrive around 10:00.

So, basically, I'll...be....right...here.

(I love E.T. Love. Makes me cry every time.)

Construction with ex-convicts, the bathroom, and The Surprise!

Typically Australian Builder calls Nick with questions or to talk about how construction is going.

Even when it's something that pertains to me, because, let's face it not to be so fucking stereotypical, but I'm significantly more interested in what color we should paint it than what it's made out of. Plus Nick is a lot more anal particular than I am.

And can you tell I'm kind of fixated on construction? Which is supposed to be done on Thursday? Fingers so crossed and also yippeenakedbackflips?

Actually, let me back up. The bathroom is done! They put up a pole yesterday and last night we put up the super cute elephants shower curtain, but I didn't have time to take new pictures. I had trouble working the angles, but you get some idea of what it's like. The window is over the tub. I'm pretty in love with it. I love the tile and the color and the tub and the cabinets. The fact that we are no longer in danger of stepping straight through the floor figures in as well. And the fact that I can just walk down the hall and shower is kind of magic too.But! Back on semi-track! I don't think I've told you how Nick used to spend his summers working construction in New Jersey with a bunch of ex-convicts, have I?

He did.

So he knows a lot about construction (and ex-cons from New Jersey - who, seriously, used to do things like inject tequila), and can not only talk about materials but techniques and tools and wiring and you know, whatever else one might talk about when talking the construction talk. He might also be able to talk prison talk, but surprisingly, that's never come up.

Even before that, Nick's father, who is cerebral and not remotely practical, started asking Nick to fix plumbing and electrical problems in their house at quite a young age. And so he figured stuff out. Thankfully, for the more complicated projects where he thought he might get electrocuted or flood the house he said he was like, "Um, Dad...maybe we could hire someone? I'm only 12."

But this is such a sidebar, because what I really want to talk about is The Surprise.

Last Friday Australian Builder called me - me?! - all excited. "Remember I told you I had a surprise for you? The surprise is done! What time are you going to be home?"

I tried to get it out of him, and he wouldn't tell me. All he'd say was, "It's for you and for Jordan."

He'd put a surprise for us in the bathroom. It was not a puppy. And I was to call him when I figured out what it was. Jordan and I looked everywhere. We got in the tub. I opened all the cabinets. We closed the door and looked behind it.

It's a good sized bathroom - certainly bigger than what will be our master bath - but it's not that big. How could we miss the surprise? So I had to call him and say, "OH MY GOD I LOVE LOVE LOVE THE BATHROOM I LOVE IT SO MUCH BUT WHAT'S THE SURPRISE?"

So he told me to lift the toilet lid. He said the plumber, who is an equally large and manly man called him one day and was all, "Listen to what I found!" And AB said, "Buy it buy it buy it!"

Surprise! Magnetized little tiny toilet seat that folds down for little tiny potty training bottoms!

Half an alphabet and broken pants

Currently the only functional tub in our house is up on the fourth floor.

Our eventual master bathroom has never worked, and Jordan's bathroom, which he and I share, is under construction. Betty has a great shower, but our son hates showers. Haaaates the water on his head.

So he and I trek up to the fourth floor to Nick's bathroom. Jordan finds it extremely exciting. "We're going to have a bath in Daddy's bathtub! Let's play with his toys!"

I took a cute video of Jordan bobbing around in the bath. He thought I was taking his picture, so he kept grinning for the camera saying, "Cheese!" over and over.

And then he sang the alphabet, ending with, "Cheese!"

A friend asked me if I was going to post it on my blog, and I said I wanted to, but then realized that his little butt was in the frame. "I am worried," I said, "about having it up on the internet for icky pedophiles."

"Are there any other kind of pedophiles?"

Uh. Good point.

So I give you approximately half an alphabet, sung by the flying nun.

----

When I get Jordan out of the bath, I wrap him all up in a towel and cuddle him all swaddled and rock him and say, "Who's my baby?"

I didn't realize I always did this. But I do. Because now, when Nick is the one picking him up all snuggled in the towel, Jordan looks up at his dad and says, "Who's my baby?"

----

Nick and I were talking about how much fun the bath can be, and he said how sad he's going to be when Jordan gets too old to be bathed.

Then I was all, "You're probably going to be bigger than him for a long time. You might be able to force him to let you give him baths through at least junior high school."

Because that wouldn't damage someone for life.

----

It's been a mild winter, but I realized this morning that the span of a winter is still a long time in kid years. In the interim, our kid forgot about shorts entirely.

So when Nick tried to put a pair on him this morning, he was incensed.

"NO! Take them OFF! These pants are BROKEN! I want good pants!"

Lighting, IKEA vs. family heirlooms, and odds are good that I’m your husband. Or a Chihuahua.

Do you ever find yourself in the position where you both feel like you're right but also suspect you might be being ridiculous?

I am probably like one of those tiny little dogs with sharpy-sharp teeth who is all, “Stay the fuck off my lawn. I might have to jump to reach your kneecap, but don’t think I won’t bite the crap out of your ankle.”

I realize it's not a flattering comparison, but it's the best I can come up with.

So.

Nick and I have what I consider the most critical things in common, such as a deep love for each other and our family, very closely aligned life priorities, and similar approaches to spending money.

We also have, as I have documented many a time, extremely different styles in clothing and decor. With few exceptions, he’s let me pick all the colors in the house. Because he loves me and is indulgent. Also, he’s color blind, which works in my favor.

Now, Nick would never, ever choose all the Hindu gods and goddesses, the Buddhas, the Mahavir, or the plethora of Indian wall hangings and such that decorate our home. But he agrees they look nice in the house.

And I would never choose his heavy leather men’s wood paneled library furniture or ginormous bookcases or giant wardrobe or cumbersome sleigh bed frame which prevents me from being able to make my own bed. But I agree that they are beautiful, high quality pieces. They suit our Victorian-era house.

And all but the fucking sofa with the asshole stealth leg of toe-break death are very comfortable and/or useful.

Which brings me to IKEA.

Nick hates everything IKEA stands for with a passion. He saves his money, and he buys nice things. All of his furniture is either inherited (his lot inherits it; my lot buys it) or purchased from this amazing consignment store in New Jersey. He’s refinished a lot of his wood pieces himself. He can rewire lamps and do minor plumbing when need be.

In my Match.com ad one of my hopes was a man who could use power tools, and let me say, he does not disappoint. In other words, in many ways, I think he is magic.

But sometimes he pisses me the fuck off.

We have this very expensive antique ceiling lamp that I hate. Well, I hated it in our dining room. It looks quite nice in Betty’s room. But I call it the Bully Light. Because Nick bullied me into it.

You see, he is one of these efficient people who wants things DONE. And COMPLETE. And it bothered him no end that we had this gross, cheap light fixture in the dining room when the rest of the room had been redone.

And here’s where I am probably like your husband, or at any rate, like a lot of my friends’ husbands. Things like this don’t bother me. I can step over piles of dirty clothes or books on the floor, walk around piles of clean laundry on the table. I’m not avoiding it; I just don’t see it. I wasn’t dwelling on our hideous cheap lighting because as long as the bulbs went on, I wasn’t looking at them.

Truth.

These things, however, set Nick’s teeth on edge. And so he bullied me into agreeing to this light fixture, because although I knew he didn’t love it, it was the one he liked best at the antique lighting store and he just wanted it UP and DONE. And sometimes, sometimes it’s easier to agree than fight.

And sometimes it’s also easier to go ahead and admit how much you fucking hate a light fixture than pretend that you think your husband is right, no matter how many times he tries to talk you into thinking so.

Which brings us back to IKEA.

For the first year or so that we lived in our charming, closetless Victorian house, I, a woman with a love of clothing and shoes and perhaps too many items of both, did not have a closet. I was asked to hold out until we had enough money (and had finished having our babies) so that we can turn the adjoining room into a spectacular wall of closets.

I had to beg – I tell ye verily, beg – for an IKEA closet NOW NOW NOW. Because I could not wait 3-5 years for an amazing wall of closets. It was the topic of many a fight.

And then he very kindly helped me order one and put it together for me, and while he was annoyed that it is basically made of cardboard (true) he agreed that it is nicely designed and suits my purposes perfectly.

Thus emboldened, I bought some ceiling lamps. Plastic, modern, cheap. So what? I like how they look. They're not the most amazing things ever. I don't love them with a passion. I just like them.Nick hates them. He put one up in Jordan’s room, and was infuriated by the quality. “It won’t last!”

“It doesn’t have to last 20 fucking years.”

“It’s probably going to burn the house down.”

“Right. Because you hear all these instances of IKEA lamps burning houses down. But somehow they’re still allowed to sell them.”

(I told you. I will shred your pants leg as high as I can reach and not let go.)

So this morning Nick texted me on my way to work to ask if I would call Australian Builder to tell him that we don’t have a ceiling light for the girl’s room (which is essentially done!) So I replied, “I just told Miguel that we do in fact have an IKEA light that I like but you won’t let me use it and so they’re going to have to wait. Do you still want me to call?”

And instead of engaging, the smart man replied, “Yes, please.”

I called AB and said, “Nick wanted me to call and tell you that we don’t have a ceiling light for the girl’s room.”

“Oh, I thought you did.”

“Well, technically we DO, because we have one that I like that I bought at IKEA so we COULD have it done today. But since everything with Nick has to be a fucking family heirloom, we won’t have one until Saturday.”

AB, who tends to see eye to eye with Nick but is also married and rather astute said very soothingly, “It’s OK, Lis. It’s no problem. We’ll get the rest of it done and get the light up later. It’ll just take a second. The room will be fine.”

And really, how can you continue to stomp your feet and act like an enraged bitch with that?

He's a cold hearted snake; look into his eyes...

Now, I recognize that there are few times, if ever, in your life that you might be in the market for a fake snake.

However. If you are, you might like to know that a website called Fake Rubber Snakes exists. Yes. And these are the category of snake from which you can choose: Giant Fake Snakes; Straight Fake Snakes; Coiled Fake Snakes; Small Fake Snakes; Guttzie Buddy Snakes. So ya know.

Because, you see, we have this ancient row house that we've spent the last three years pouring our time, money, energy, caulk (oh, the caulk!), etc into.

And Nick has worked incredibly hard in his scant free time, and he is very house proud. (And what's that expression about pride before a fall while backing up to admire one's handiwork?)

But, now we have this galling bird problem.

They like to sit in the sun outside my mom's front window. And drop feathers and kick dirt off the sill and poop on the stoop. Last weekend Nick cleaned out the remnants of two old nests.

You know how sometimes one little thing is a final straw? No pun, but with those nests, Nick reached his patience limits with the birds. He decided that what we really need are fake snakes.

Fake snakes! Fake snakes would fix this!

First he called around to places like Lowes and Cold Home Hippo and Target and our local hardware store.

Ever tried calling somewhere out of the blue and asking for a fake snake? Once you make it clear that you're serious, and then you explain - bird problem, want to scare them away, fake snake...then people on the other end are all, "Hey, that's a good idea! No, we don't have those. We have owls."

Apparently everyone has owls. Nick wanted snakes, because they're subtler. He didn't want a big old fake owl on his house.

Which is how Nick discovered FakeRubberSnakes.com - for all your fake snake needs. Ultimately, however, he ordered from Amazon because of the Prime two-day shipping. He needed those birds gone yesterday.

I suggested he get a copperhead, mainly because it's the only snake from this area that I know. But he did a little research - not quite as extensive as the Top Ten Deadliest Animals in Africa - and chose a rattlesnake and a coral snake, which we don't have in DC but apparently looks just like some other snake we do have. Of which the birds should be petrified.

Also - coral snakes? Very deadly poisonous. If you see one, run!

The birds? Not only not scared, but seemingly completely unimpressed. They were up there this morning, chit-chatting in the sun, with the scary rattlesnake (with a head that actually rattles!) peering down behind them.

Winged bastards.

Next, we get an owl.

Color opinions: Cliche or not cliche? Harmony? Boldness? Help!

So when poor old Jordan was born, we'd been in our new oldoldold house for two months.

Incidentally, Nick has taken to calling our abode Downtown Abbey. Because it was built in the late 1800s and, until we upgraded it, had plumbing and electricity of roughly the same era as the Downton series. It was probably very modern, you know, when electricity was first installed in city houses.

You know, back when they wrapped the electric wires in cloth. And made the pipes out of lead. Hand to God, we had both.

Anyway, Jordan. We chucked him in the room off of our bedroom, which was made to feel like the nursery only because it had a crib and changing table and some cute decals on the walls.

But the walls were still grotty and gross and cracked. Same with the window sills. And floorboards. And really everything.

He was wee, and he didn't care, of course. And I didn't have the energy to care, quite honestly, because we had things like a kitchen to build.

And then a year ago we moved him (and the awesome claw foot tub!) down the hall to another grotty room. Which turned out to have no insulation. And big gaps around the windows And so we ran an AC window unit all summer, and have had a space heater all winter.

So.

Now we are insulating and fixing Jordan's room. And putting up a wall in the room in front of it to make into the girl's room. Initially she will sleep in the old nursery, but now the elevator runs through it and also that means we can't get to our bathroom, both of which make it less than ideal.

We're also redoing the bathroom between the two rooms, because it turned out that those soft spots in the floor were, uh, holes in the wood. So when you pulled up the tile you could see daylight below.

AND NOW HERE'S THE VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION: WHAT COLORS?

See, I love pink, I do. But very strong pinks - like fuchsia and magenta and such. And I love them with orange.

But our girl's room, it is small. And dark. There is one window, and it is opaque, because the view is of the neighbor building's fire escapes and garbage cans and piles of crap.

So, while I would like Spring Bloom (and if you click you can embiggen the photos), I think it's too dark. Betty and Nick like the lighter pink, but it seems kind of cliched, doesn't it? How do you feel about Weeping Wisteria?

These are the same colors on the wall nearest the window.The Bayou blue is the color I think I am going to paint Jordan's soon-to-be done room.

But then what for the bathroom? There's very little wall, and mostly white tile...so of course I am tempted to turn it lime green or ORANGE! or something extreme. But Nick and Australian Builder think it should probably harmonize with the two rooms. Particularly since we have so many other colors going on in the house.

These are a couple possibly harmonious options. I didn't lighten the photos, so you have a good idea of the lack of light we're dealing with.

I don't have baby colors or a theme, or really anything I have to work around. I'm considering peacock decals, but those could be any color.

In other words, it's wide open and I have to decide soon, particularly on the bathroom and girl's room and I don't know what to do.

What do you think?

Lovin' an elevator

First, I owe you all a huge thanks for checking on us and being glad we're OK.

I know the Californians were making a lot of fun of those of us in DC who kind of lost our shit over the earthquake, because, yawn, it happens all the time out there. And theirs are so much bigger and scarier and oh, double yawn, DC wimps. To which I say, huh, well, I absolutely love this Penelope skit.

Anyway.

I'm not actually here to snark at the Californians. Because what I really want to show you is how the elevator works!

From the outside:

From the inside:

It's kind of cool, you guys.

Houston, we have...bathtub

So the elevator, is it not quite totally hooked up. We are close, though. Close.

However. For all of you who were enthusiastic supporters, we do have claw foot bathtub! (For those of you who voted "trashy" - um, we still have bathtub.)

Australian Builder (AB) was finally able to convene four big, strong men to deal with the bathtub. The piece Nick kept referring to as "a widow-maker." He'd shake his head, "That thing's a widow-maker."

FYI, none of the men kicked it. And actually, Betty said they weren't as big as she expected, but they weren't accountants. And they were certainly strong.

AB said that they used the winch and lowered it through the elevator hole, thus avoiding stairs and so that they only had to carry it the length of one floor. He added that he was really nervous, though, because they were dangling this insanely heavy piece of cast iron through a hole over an incredibly expensive elevator.

When he put it that way, I was so glad I wasn't home.

Apparently these medium-sized strong men cursed the whole way down the hallway. Because our hallways, they are narrow. And so they had to lift it high up in the air to clear the railing.

Yikes. And yay for medium-sized, strong men!

So now I have to figure out what to put on the bottom of it. It needs a big pad of some sort, but I think it needs to fit pretty well so it's not slippy. AB suggested a "cot pad" would fit perfectly and I was all, um, maybe in Australia? Oval cot pad?

I was also thinking that maybe I could just get one of those big rubber non-slip pads for bathtubs, and then pile things on top of it. But it does seem like there needs to be a large foundation for all the pillows to sit on, because otherwise don't you think you'll constantly be sliding through to the cold cold bottom?

Or maybe that doesn't matter? I feel like it does, though.

Nick also thinks we need something around the rim so that Jordan doesn't crack his head on it. I think he's right, but not sure what.

We movin' on up in the world like elevators

The elevator pieces arrived yesterday! They put many of them together! They are putting them more together as I type!

Tomorrow, my invisible friends, we may have liftoff!

The coral room is on the ground floor, and the blue room is Betty's. There's another blue room that it goes through as well, but that seemed superfluous. How many people are interested in pieces of elevator in two very similar rooms?So.

There was, as you may imagine, great commotion and excitement at our house yesterday. Alas, I was at the office. I rushed home after work to see it.

I got home just minutes before an old family friend arrived.

Betty greeted us both and said, "They put the elevator in and I learned to make pesto!"

The friend, she was confused. As you yourself may be. How do these two connect? Nick, had he been there, would've asked the same thing.

Because he does not yet speak Betty. Yet.

This is the news of the day. Offered (but not necessarily) in order of importance: Elevator! Pesto! Cool!

Duh.

Also cool: the motor hole. I don't know if there's more to it, but that whole elevator runs with one little engine at the top. Kind of crazy, huh?Also crazy: the fact that it is supposed to be 95 degrees tomorrow and people are excited about the relief from all this heat.

Even more crazy: It is July 29 and what is going on with those teabagging asswipe doucheballs on Capitol Hill? But I'm not really a political type.

Happy weekend, all!

I was quiet as a mouse when I snuck into your house and took roofies with your spouse

The state of the hole:
Seriously, look at this! And look how beautifully they curved the wall and did the molding!Still unclear when the actual elevator is going to arrive. But we've got some beautiful holes in the meantime.

Rat update:
Stacey said the rats ate the parsley as well. Those motherfuckers are shameless. Next they'll be asking for mints and turndown service.

Nick's giant electrifying trap has not yet arrived.

Speaking of elecrifying:
We have a bunch of electric green paint, and I have to figure out which room could appropriately be that particular color. It's a color I like. It's just, uh, complicated.

See, we have this kitchen that's painted yellow - I'm sure you've seen it in some of the photos or videos. And we have a room right behind it which shares a wall. It's kind of arbitrary where the kitchen ends and the back room begins.

As I have an overdeveloped sense of confidence in my color-picking ability, plus caution is boring, I picked the kitchen yellow from one small paint chip. And I picked the back room green from one small paint chip...

It turns out that strong yellow lining up next to electric green makes you dizzy. And nauseous. You'd hit the edge of one and practically fall down.

It's all yellow now.