I'll reflect upon my successes (and setbacks - not ready to call them failures just yet) of Frugal February tomorrow, but for today I just wanted to give myself a little virtual- (cyber?) pat on the back for doing a darn good job at NaBloPoMo. Even though February was a short month, posting 26/28 days is still better odds than last time's record of 18/30. I think. Math?
And no, it wasn't perfect, but it was darn close and I'm pleased. Next time? I think we could go all the way, team. Make regionals, show those kids at St. Mary's we ain't scared of them- whole nine yards.
It's been fun, making myself sit down and write something personal every day. It really did help get me through the arduous clusterfuck that has been our plumbing drama, for one, and it provided a nice change of pace, writing creatively and self-editing as a contrast to my day job where my writing is more perfunctory and goes through several approval stages before seeing the light of day. Plus, it didn't hurt that I saw my largest number of hits this month, either. Oh, don't pretend you don't peek at your stats like a crazy person, too.
I don't think I'll be able to keep up the one-a-day formula for a bit - my work life is going to get a little hectic until Easter - but I'll try my best to come here as often as I can. The competitive cheerleader in me (she's buried way deep down, under mini-hot-dogs and Passion Flakies) won't stop doing this until I can achieve a perfect score. But really, it has been a great stress release to talk about life instead of politics or logistics or travel documents. You'd be surprised what little room there is for poop jokes in talking points.
I know I was.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Wiggin' Out 'Bout it Wednesday: Laundry Edition
Let's get honest with each other, shall we?
I would like to believe 1950s hygiene ads that state the fragrance of a female is as fresh field full of freesia (alliteration!) but the fact of the matter is - sometimes, I smell.
If my sister is reading this, no I don't. You do.
But for the rest of you: yes. It happens.
More specifically, the things whose stank bugs me the most are blazers. Blazers=wardrobe staples but Blazers also = dry clean only. Which meant for years I was wearing them a dozen times or so then taking them to the dry cleaners to get the stains and stale smell out of them.
Except, y'know, they didn't.
Everything would be hunky-dory until about the second re-wearing, then the smell of sweat and the smell of dry cleaning chemicals blend together into one nose-scrunching funk. Frankly, I kind of hate the smell of things coming back from the dry cleaner anyway - but what's a professional girl to do?
I tried Febreeze, I tried Dryel - nothing worked. One of my blazers won't even be cleaned by dry cleaners because it has some leather on it (I'm a badass) and when I tried to get it and a partially-leather skirt cleaned they quoted me $63 to do it.
Just when I was about to break out the precious Grey Goose to solve my problems, in comes my lifesaver. Soak wash.
Proof.
I bought my bottle at Fresh Collective in Toronto on a whim and honestly? Best. Whim. Ever. I bought it in Lacey, but it comes in a few other scents as well as in a scent-free formula. Soak's gotta lot of good going for it but by far my favourite part is its ease of use. I put enough cool water in my bathtub to cover three blazers and gave a couple of squeezes of the bottle into the liquid. Out of force of habit I rubbed the stains/smelly areas a little, though you don't have to. I left them in the water for 15-20 minutes and then gently squeezed out the water. Then I hung up the jackets to dry (I'd probably recommend laying them flat but I just didn't have the space that week- the place was a disaster, and flat surfaces were at a premium).
That was it. No rinsing necessary. No putting them in the dryer, no fuss, no muss. I was in love. And the verdict? They smell awesome. Very light scent, slightly feminine and a million times nicer than when they came back from the dry cleaner. And the leather on the blazer looks fine. I have no idea if it's real leather or not but if its real enough to charge $63 to clean it, I'll believe it.
Again, like all "Wiggin' Out 'Bout it Wednesday"s I receive no endorsement to gush about this - I'm just that relieved to find something that a) works b) doesn't bankrupt me in the process c) doesn't make me get high off dry cleaning fumes at work (I do that on my own time now, thankyouverymuch).
Viva la soak.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Snapshots of Today
This Tuesday has been all about making hay while the sun shines, making a silk purse out of sow's ear and probably a bunch of other sayings that don't get nearly enough use, in my opinion.
The workers finished day 2 and all seems right with the world (or at least with our sewer pipes). The City is coming back tomorrow to fill in our front "yard" (such as it is) but the inspector's been by, the hole in my basement got filled and everything's on schedule to be finished very soon. Which is an incredible relief. The guys have been great so far - my only gripe was today when they were explaining all that they'd done and they called TB down but not me. Fair enough, they probably didn't know I was home. But once I came down, I was basically ignored in favour of the "Man of the House" and all further commentary was directed at him. Except to scoff when I asked a question. Weak. I mean, it's not that I'm saying I'm such an expert on foundation and plumbing and such, it's just that TB isn't much more knowledgeable than me, so you might as well tell both the paying customers what's what. That being said, that was mostly an eye-roll moment rather than a real complaint, and I was comforted knowing at some point they most surely had to fish feminine products out of our drains. It's all about the small victories.
As a treat after they left for the day, we took a walk to one of the places we'd visited during the Dishcrawl. We're addicted to exploding boba (like cock-a-leekie and spotted dick, tastes better than it sounds) and the bubble tea place in our neighbourhood does 'em right.
Before we went out tonight, TB hugged me and said "Thank you for going through this ordeal with me." And yeah, okay, I don't have much of a choice, but it was still a nice sentiment, and I think these shenanigans have made our team stronger.
Fruity Drink Squad - Activate!
 |
| The crown jewel of the neighbourhood, we are. *bats eyelashes* |
The workers finished day 2 and all seems right with the world (or at least with our sewer pipes). The City is coming back tomorrow to fill in our front "yard" (such as it is) but the inspector's been by, the hole in my basement got filled and everything's on schedule to be finished very soon. Which is an incredible relief. The guys have been great so far - my only gripe was today when they were explaining all that they'd done and they called TB down but not me. Fair enough, they probably didn't know I was home. But once I came down, I was basically ignored in favour of the "Man of the House" and all further commentary was directed at him. Except to scoff when I asked a question. Weak. I mean, it's not that I'm saying I'm such an expert on foundation and plumbing and such, it's just that TB isn't much more knowledgeable than me, so you might as well tell both the paying customers what's what. That being said, that was mostly an eye-roll moment rather than a real complaint, and I was comforted knowing at some point they most surely had to fish feminine products out of our drains. It's all about the small victories.
 |
| "Ladies, don't worry your pretty little heads about plumbing, we gotcha covered! *wink*" |
Before we went out tonight, TB hugged me and said "Thank you for going through this ordeal with me." And yeah, okay, I don't have much of a choice, but it was still a nice sentiment, and I think these shenanigans have made our team stronger.
Fruity Drink Squad - Activate!
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| If there's something pink on the menu, he'll order it. |
Monday, February 25, 2013
Weekend Roundup
So as I said in my last post, I was mightily distracted by the doings a-transpirin' in my basement money pit this weekend. I did manage to drag myself out of my pity party long enough to make it to an actual party - a goodbye fete for my good friend, C, who'll be in Russia for over a month in language immersion before she moves there for a few years. Melancholy and purveyors of beverages are an excellent combination (or a terrible combination, depending on your take on these things) so I was looking forward to it. It started out shakily though - I don't go out to bars very much, and certainly not to clubs. I'm old, I deal. So when I was packing my clutch I only did my cursory checklist - key, credit card, cash, lip goo, bus pass, cell phone. Some younger clubgoers might realize what I was forgetting but I certainly didn't catch it.
The Sister and I head out to the bus stop for a short trip further downtown, her tottering in her heeled boots, me sliding in my wedges. We endure 5 seconds of a gaggle of teenage girls warbling Macklemore, again reminding me why I used to hate riding public transit on a Saturday night and why I am not, however from-American-Apparel my shirt might be, 20.
Once we get there, there's a bit of confusion since the place we're looking for is part of a larger cluster of clubs, all completely surrounded by college students - my first hint that I probably should have just grabbed my shizz and headed out. But we persevere, heading into the first one that answers in the affirmative when we mention the name of the club. Once inside, I realize what I'd forgotten. The bouncer turns to my sister and, wordlessly and seamlessly, she paws through her bag looking for her ID.
ID.
Fuck.
I smile my second-least-convincing smile, square my shoulders and thrust the girls out.
"I don't have my ID.. I'm sorry. I know I should but.. well. I didn't. I don't - I'm old enough. I'm just old, actually," I say, more than a little pathetically.
"Stand outside, please."
Sighing, I jostle my way back outside, only to be told to come back in again.
"Talk to my friend over there."
Dutifully, I walk to the back of the entrance where an identically-dressed man, at least 4 years my junior looks at me reproachfully.
"You understand why we have to do this, right? If you get hurt or something goes wrong in there and we have to call the cops, we'll both get in trouble."
"Yes, totally. I get it. I understand."
"I'm her younger sister!" TS pipes up at this point.
"You don't have anything on you at all that says your age? Nothing?"
I rifle through my tiny clutch, coming up with only my bus pass and my Visa.
"Sorry, no. This bus pass says I work for the Government? Not too many 18-year-olds there!" I lamely grin at him in what I hope is an endearing move.
No reaction.
I make motions to leave, but the bouncer waves me back.
"I will make an exception for you - but just for you, and just this once, okay?"
"Thank you. I appreciate that," I nod, chastised and head into the murky depths of the club, an odd combination of relief, displeasure and self-satisfaction settling over me. Still got it! A young waif with a cash box asks me who I'm here to see.
"Um, no one. I mean, my friends. Not, like, a show or anything."
She grimaces slightly but jerks her head back towards the club, indicating we can go in.
"I feel like a rock star!" I giggle-whisper to TS. I have had quite a lot of rum at this point.
We descend the stairs into... nothingness.
Well, not nothingness exactly, but a sporadically-attended bar. First of all, it's very clear that our friend is not here, despite the fact that C said she was at the bar a half-hour prior. A quick glance at the posters on the wall and a look at the clientele help us to unravel a mystery that would make Benedict Cumberbatch gasp - we are in the wrong club.
Just goes to show, you can't always trust random strangers outside a loud bar to help you find your way. Shame, that.
We sneak back outside (so as not to be embarrassed by the sartorially-twinned bouncers) and stand once again, staring at the street. The crowd parts slightly and now we can easily see our mistake and slip into the bar/club that we were supposed to be at.
"Yay! You made it! We thought you were dead!... The band's about to start..."
Oh yes, there was a band.
If I had been in my teen years, this would have been a fine way to spend my evening. In high school, I dated an audiophile who was heavily involved with the punk scene, and my friends embraced the pop-punk stylings of the 90s, including all One-hundred-and-eighty-two Blinks. But 15 years later, it's too loud, I'm too old, let's get drunk.
Honestly, the group was pretty good, but the place is so tiny and the goal of the event (to say goodbye to a friend) was completely hampered by the issue their performance presented (nobody could hear anybody say anything to anyone) that no one in our group was really feeling them. Plus one of them took his shirt off. And it was the death-scream kind of punk. And it was only 10 o'clock. So, obviously our good friend alcohol decides to liven things up. I manage to order the most complicated drink on the menu because I'm a girl-drink drunk.
Once I see this drink comes with not one but TWO sticks of fruit, I'm sold. It takes 13 minutes to make it, costs $11 and necessitates me writing down its name ("The Red Riding Hood") on a piece of paper to be understood over the din, but it is Totally worth it. I love drinks that can give you a buzz and an ice cream headache all at once. Y'know, people were mocking me silently (or loudly, again, can't tell) as they watched the grizzled Russian bartender put together my witch's brew but I swear, every girl's eyes for three barstools on either side of me glazed over with delight when I was presented my prize.
I sip, then gulp the concoction as the rest of the crew begin putting on their coats to move on to another location. The walk over is a little more treacherous this time around, but I'm pretty sure that has more to do with the slush accumulation on the ground, and not that in my martini glass. As we stand outside the bar I realized, belatedly, that I STILL did not have my ID on me.
I looked up pitifully into the eyes of yet another bouncer, sighed and laid it out.
"Look, I don't have my ID. Nothing at all. I'm sorry. I'm lame and don't do this very often, obviously, okay?"
He smiled at me "What's your birthdate?"
I told him.
"What star sign does that make you?"
"A Cancer."
"Good enough for me."
This? Is why bars are better than clubs. Fact.
The place was still loud but talkable-loud and we had a lovely time, throwing back drinks until any talk of foundations, basements, water leakage, and sewage were far far behind me, replaced by vodka-cranberries and Rhianna assuring me she continues to find love in a hopeless place.
I said goodbye to C (though we have yoga tonight so no big goodbyes or anything yet) and TS and I collapsed into the nearest cab.
The next day was spent sprawled out on the couch, watching DVDs of Happy Endings and eating, literally, the biggest breakfast I have ever cooked myself. I felt like a snake.
And now the clock's struck midnight and I'm back to being a Cinderella, dealing with debt and eating frozen pizza for dinner. But good weekend, kids. Good weekend.
The Sister and I head out to the bus stop for a short trip further downtown, her tottering in her heeled boots, me sliding in my wedges. We endure 5 seconds of a gaggle of teenage girls warbling Macklemore, again reminding me why I used to hate riding public transit on a Saturday night and why I am not, however from-American-Apparel my shirt might be, 20.
ID.
Fuck.
I smile my second-least-convincing smile, square my shoulders and thrust the girls out.
"I don't have my ID.. I'm sorry. I know I should but.. well. I didn't. I don't - I'm old enough. I'm just old, actually," I say, more than a little pathetically.
"Stand outside, please."
Sighing, I jostle my way back outside, only to be told to come back in again.
"Talk to my friend over there."
Dutifully, I walk to the back of the entrance where an identically-dressed man, at least 4 years my junior looks at me reproachfully.
"You understand why we have to do this, right? If you get hurt or something goes wrong in there and we have to call the cops, we'll both get in trouble."
"Yes, totally. I get it. I understand."
"I'm her younger sister!" TS pipes up at this point.
"You don't have anything on you at all that says your age? Nothing?"
I rifle through my tiny clutch, coming up with only my bus pass and my Visa.
"Sorry, no. This bus pass says I work for the Government? Not too many 18-year-olds there!" I lamely grin at him in what I hope is an endearing move.
No reaction.
I make motions to leave, but the bouncer waves me back.
"I will make an exception for you - but just for you, and just this once, okay?"
"Thank you. I appreciate that," I nod, chastised and head into the murky depths of the club, an odd combination of relief, displeasure and self-satisfaction settling over me. Still got it! A young waif with a cash box asks me who I'm here to see.
"Um, no one. I mean, my friends. Not, like, a show or anything."
She grimaces slightly but jerks her head back towards the club, indicating we can go in.
"I feel like a rock star!" I giggle-whisper to TS. I have had quite a lot of rum at this point.
We descend the stairs into... nothingness.
Well, not nothingness exactly, but a sporadically-attended bar. First of all, it's very clear that our friend is not here, despite the fact that C said she was at the bar a half-hour prior. A quick glance at the posters on the wall and a look at the clientele help us to unravel a mystery that would make Benedict Cumberbatch gasp - we are in the wrong club.
Just goes to show, you can't always trust random strangers outside a loud bar to help you find your way. Shame, that.
We sneak back outside (so as not to be embarrassed by the sartorially-twinned bouncers) and stand once again, staring at the street. The crowd parts slightly and now we can easily see our mistake and slip into the bar/club that we were supposed to be at.
"Yay! You made it! We thought you were dead!... The band's about to start..."
Oh yes, there was a band.
If I had been in my teen years, this would have been a fine way to spend my evening. In high school, I dated an audiophile who was heavily involved with the punk scene, and my friends embraced the pop-punk stylings of the 90s, including all One-hundred-and-eighty-two Blinks. But 15 years later, it's too loud, I'm too old, let's get drunk.
Honestly, the group was pretty good, but the place is so tiny and the goal of the event (to say goodbye to a friend) was completely hampered by the issue their performance presented (nobody could hear anybody say anything to anyone) that no one in our group was really feeling them. Plus one of them took his shirt off. And it was the death-scream kind of punk. And it was only 10 o'clock. So, obviously our good friend alcohol decides to liven things up. I manage to order the most complicated drink on the menu because I'm a girl-drink drunk.
Basically my life.
Once I see this drink comes with not one but TWO sticks of fruit, I'm sold. It takes 13 minutes to make it, costs $11 and necessitates me writing down its name ("The Red Riding Hood") on a piece of paper to be understood over the din, but it is Totally worth it. I love drinks that can give you a buzz and an ice cream headache all at once. Y'know, people were mocking me silently (or loudly, again, can't tell) as they watched the grizzled Russian bartender put together my witch's brew but I swear, every girl's eyes for three barstools on either side of me glazed over with delight when I was presented my prize.
.jpg) |
| Sparkles may have been added for effect. Or a unicorn pissed in this. Either way- magical! |
I looked up pitifully into the eyes of yet another bouncer, sighed and laid it out.
"Look, I don't have my ID. Nothing at all. I'm sorry. I'm lame and don't do this very often, obviously, okay?"
He smiled at me "What's your birthdate?"
I told him.
"What star sign does that make you?"
"A Cancer."
"Good enough for me."
This? Is why bars are better than clubs. Fact.
The place was still loud but talkable-loud and we had a lovely time, throwing back drinks until any talk of foundations, basements, water leakage, and sewage were far far behind me, replaced by vodka-cranberries and Rhianna assuring me she continues to find love in a hopeless place.
I said goodbye to C (though we have yoga tonight so no big goodbyes or anything yet) and TS and I collapsed into the nearest cab.
The next day was spent sprawled out on the couch, watching DVDs of Happy Endings and eating, literally, the biggest breakfast I have ever cooked myself. I felt like a snake.
And now the clock's struck midnight and I'm back to being a Cinderella, dealing with debt and eating frozen pizza for dinner. But good weekend, kids. Good weekend.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Watch this Space
I won't lie to y'all, once someone lays down some serious damage on your bank account, it basically ruins any other thoughts you planned on having that weekend. I want to say I took it in stride and moved on with grace and elegance, but the near-empty bottle of rum and overturned Coke Zero bottles on my dining room table are a living testament to the opposite.
I'll tell you about my (somewhat) embarrassing (pretty darn) fun weekend tomorrow. But for now, I'm just a bundle of stomach-tightening, hand-wringing, worst-case-scenario-imagining nerves. I have a rough idea of how much this misery is going to cost us but I'm worried it could balloon to somewhere massively uncomfortable. I also have no idea how long it'll take - and let me tell you, a bunch of blue-collar workers sticking around your house to root around in your pipes is a sexy concept that is born of and exists only in pornography.
I've been being very even about this whole affair but I'm getting that nervous and nauseous feeling that comes whenever I feel like I'm just "playing" at being a grown-up. Why did I think I could handle this? We were cleaning out the basement in preparation for the workers tomorrow and my face must have been a mask of stress. TB came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I leaned back into him just a little.
"Are we going to be okay?"
"Yeah."
"Promise?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"You can't know, you know. We might not be."
"I know. But we will."
So I'll trust in that tonight and hope it gets me through tomorrow, and beyond. Sleep well.
I'll tell you about my (somewhat) embarrassing (pretty darn) fun weekend tomorrow. But for now, I'm just a bundle of stomach-tightening, hand-wringing, worst-case-scenario-imagining nerves. I have a rough idea of how much this misery is going to cost us but I'm worried it could balloon to somewhere massively uncomfortable. I also have no idea how long it'll take - and let me tell you, a bunch of blue-collar workers sticking around your house to root around in your pipes is a sexy concept that is born of and exists only in pornography.
I've been being very even about this whole affair but I'm getting that nervous and nauseous feeling that comes whenever I feel like I'm just "playing" at being a grown-up. Why did I think I could handle this? We were cleaning out the basement in preparation for the workers tomorrow and my face must have been a mask of stress. TB came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I leaned back into him just a little.
"Are we going to be okay?"
"Yeah."
"Promise?"
"Yeah. Of course."
"You can't know, you know. We might not be."
"I know. But we will."
So I'll trust in that tonight and hope it gets me through tomorrow, and beyond. Sleep well.
Friday, February 22, 2013
A Reassessment of Yesterday's Post: Balls.
Ugh. Let's go back to those blissfully ignorant times known as "Wednesday" when the world was fresh and our belief that our plumbing issues would be affordable were still beautiful pipe dreams.
Must... pun.. even in.... hard times.
Usually having a myriad of men traipse through my home would leave me positively dizzy with delight but not when they're actually, y'know, doing their job. I'll spare you the gory (read: boring) details but it's both more than we thought it would be and better than we predicted. Drank a little too much, grumped a little too hard and now I just want to solve all my problems by knocking off a pastor's wife, collecting the insurance money and hiding her body in the lake.
Sorry, we've been watching Dateline.
Honestly, TB's been in a totally depressive mood about it and though I've tried really hard to stay positive all day, I think it's finally rubbed off on me so now I'm deadfaced and miserable, too. I like you guys and all, but if you're not Honey the Pug or Sea World doing the Harlem Shake, I think I'm going to have to ask you to go.
 |
| Oh all right. You can stay. |
You too, I guess.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
The utter delights of homeownership
There is no nice way to spin the inspiration for this post: sometimes buying a house is an exercise in teeth-grinding.
I went to my parent's house for dinner last night and called TB about 7:30 to ask him if he could pull my old desk out of our basement in order to give it to my dad/sister when they dropped me off back home. About a half-hour later, he gives my sister a call (my cell phone was dead). Her side of the conversation was basically as follows:
"No, I don't. My dad might. What's wrong? ... Is that bad? How much water? Dad, do you know a plumber? <to me> He wants to talk to you."
The even, casual tone TB struck with my sister was in sharp contrast to the strained, irritated and defeated voice that greeted me as soon as I picked up.
"What's up?"
"That open pipe in the basement is spilling water all around it. It got through most of a cardboard box of stuff before I discovered it."
"Oh... Well... I guess we'll need a plumber?"
"Probably. <Swearing> <hang up>"
My dad followed up the call with some talk about valves and caps and, I dunno, flux capacitors - I fully admit my eyes glaze over at any talk of home reno projects, direly needed though they might be. We decided to head home to survey the damage. Full confession: I have yet to survey the damage. I like to live in blissful ignorance when toilet water's part of the gameplan. Frankly, my take away from all of this is that my nagging requests to bring things up from the basement are to be lauded as they led to the discovery of the plumbing issue in the first place. Go me.
Anywho, I arrived home to my little stress ball and used my soothing words and calming voice to assure TB that everything would be all right and that we could get through anything that was handed to us as long as we did it together. I believe my exact words were "So... are we not watching Mad Men, then? Because I want to open that package of beef jerky and watch Betty eat like me." I'm basically the Anthony Robbins of motivational relationship speeches.
I'm not saying I wasn't sympathetic, but at this point I've basically accepted that humans were not meant to live in buildings and all homes are lemons. I've heard the horror stories of new homes that went up too fast, condos that open for the first time with water in the walls and sweating windows, turn of the century homes that have massive cracks in their foundations, post-war houses whose roofs basically fly off - nothing surprises me at this point. We've been in our place just over 5 months and we've replaced the furnace and the stove as well as had an electrician in. Sure, the final two were voluntary and largely cosmetic but the fact remains: they needed to be replaced, even if it wasn't dangerous to keep them the way they were. Before we leave this place there will probably be a dozen other things we need to fix.
And I'm okay with that. I kind of dig the way our house is telling us what needs to be done, just by being its demanding, cranky self. On my best days, I actually think it's kind of hilarious. TB is not ready to guffaw over it just yet but he's slowly learning to accept that 100-year-old houses come with their own little foibles - such is the price you pay for charm. But so far they're all affordable things, the replacing of which increase the value of the house. And they were things we knew we'd need to fix eventually anyway. For example, we have no drain in our basement and we knew one of the pipes in the bathroom was ready to be replaced so it's no surprise this is happening, really. It's just annoying that it's happening now. But what can ya do? We'll deal with it and hope doesn't cost us a fortune.
But for all the potential issues with our little home, I'm still curmudgeon-ly happy to be here. Renting definitely has its benefits, what with the superintendents and the trouble-free leaving and the cost savings, and I can absolutely see the reasons why people would choose it over buying but for me, I'm still giddy that we were able to get this place. I like that we can throw parties and play Rock Band until 4am without worrying about disturbing our neighbours. I like that I can paint or hammer or plant anything I want without having to worry about restoring it to its move-in state. I like that I have an outdoor area (paved though it may be) in which to hang out with a drink this summer. I like that it's all ours.
And I will try my best to remember all of this when I'm handing over yet another cheque from the line of credit to some head-shaking, wincing tradesperson who's muttering into his chest that "this won't be cheap." Of course it won't, of course it won't.
I went to my parent's house for dinner last night and called TB about 7:30 to ask him if he could pull my old desk out of our basement in order to give it to my dad/sister when they dropped me off back home. About a half-hour later, he gives my sister a call (my cell phone was dead). Her side of the conversation was basically as follows:
"No, I don't. My dad might. What's wrong? ... Is that bad? How much water? Dad, do you know a plumber? <to me> He wants to talk to you."
The even, casual tone TB struck with my sister was in sharp contrast to the strained, irritated and defeated voice that greeted me as soon as I picked up.
"What's up?"
"That open pipe in the basement is spilling water all around it. It got through most of a cardboard box of stuff before I discovered it."
"Oh... Well... I guess we'll need a plumber?"
"Probably. <Swearing> <hang up>"
My dad followed up the call with some talk about valves and caps and, I dunno, flux capacitors - I fully admit my eyes glaze over at any talk of home reno projects, direly needed though they might be. We decided to head home to survey the damage. Full confession: I have yet to survey the damage. I like to live in blissful ignorance when toilet water's part of the gameplan. Frankly, my take away from all of this is that my nagging requests to bring things up from the basement are to be lauded as they led to the discovery of the plumbing issue in the first place. Go me.
Anywho, I arrived home to my little stress ball and used my soothing words and calming voice to assure TB that everything would be all right and that we could get through anything that was handed to us as long as we did it together. I believe my exact words were "So... are we not watching Mad Men, then? Because I want to open that package of beef jerky and watch Betty eat like me." I'm basically the Anthony Robbins of motivational relationship speeches.
I'm not saying I wasn't sympathetic, but at this point I've basically accepted that humans were not meant to live in buildings and all homes are lemons. I've heard the horror stories of new homes that went up too fast, condos that open for the first time with water in the walls and sweating windows, turn of the century homes that have massive cracks in their foundations, post-war houses whose roofs basically fly off - nothing surprises me at this point. We've been in our place just over 5 months and we've replaced the furnace and the stove as well as had an electrician in. Sure, the final two were voluntary and largely cosmetic but the fact remains: they needed to be replaced, even if it wasn't dangerous to keep them the way they were. Before we leave this place there will probably be a dozen other things we need to fix.
And I'm okay with that. I kind of dig the way our house is telling us what needs to be done, just by being its demanding, cranky self. On my best days, I actually think it's kind of hilarious. TB is not ready to guffaw over it just yet but he's slowly learning to accept that 100-year-old houses come with their own little foibles - such is the price you pay for charm. But so far they're all affordable things, the replacing of which increase the value of the house. And they were things we knew we'd need to fix eventually anyway. For example, we have no drain in our basement and we knew one of the pipes in the bathroom was ready to be replaced so it's no surprise this is happening, really. It's just annoying that it's happening now. But what can ya do? We'll deal with it and hope doesn't cost us a fortune.
But for all the potential issues with our little home, I'm still curmudgeon-ly happy to be here. Renting definitely has its benefits, what with the superintendents and the trouble-free leaving and the cost savings, and I can absolutely see the reasons why people would choose it over buying but for me, I'm still giddy that we were able to get this place. I like that we can throw parties and play Rock Band until 4am without worrying about disturbing our neighbours. I like that I can paint or hammer or plant anything I want without having to worry about restoring it to its move-in state. I like that I have an outdoor area (paved though it may be) in which to hang out with a drink this summer. I like that it's all ours.
And I will try my best to remember all of this when I'm handing over yet another cheque from the line of credit to some head-shaking, wincing tradesperson who's muttering into his chest that "this won't be cheap." Of course it won't, of course it won't.
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