All Hallows Eve...

It has recently occurred to me that my life *may* be a little abnormal at the moment. Most people, when they roll out of their sleeping bag on their living room floor Halloween morning, probably don't say: 'Damn. Halloween. I think I have plans. I was really hoping to screw down the squeaky bits in my floor.'

Nor, truth be told, do they try to think of a costume that conveniently works in the wall texturizing spray that they can't quite get out of their hair. Maybe 'construction zombie'? I wouldn't even have to change my clothes. Convenient!

Ah the joys of being different. The good news is that I think my body is finally figuring out how to cope with constant physical labor, which means that right now only my back and neck hurt, as opposed to every inch of me. The back and neck pain is, I believe, directly caused by priming the ceiling - I don't think there is a body born that can hold it's arms up above it's head and stare, open mouthed, at the ceiling for an hour without being a little creaky for the next couple of days. I feel justified in this back pain. Thank all the angels and seraphims that I share an office with one of the best Chiropractors in town - Dr. Victor has been fixing the kinks regularly and only occasionally muttering at me about taking care of my body. He's a saint.

So - for Halloween,the girls and I are (naturally) going to Oktoberfest in New Bronfels to eat bratwurst and drink beer and maybe throw in the occasional deep fried oreo. That's what you're supposed to do on Halloween right? Right?

Oh. My. God.

If any of your friends tell you that they're going to buy and remodel a house, and that they've never done that before then please pass along these well chosen words of advice. YOU ARE INSANE - GO TO THE MOVIES IN YOUR FREE TIME LIKE A NORMAL PERSON. I hurt everywhere. Everywhere. I hurt in places that I didn't know had muscles.


We closed Wednesday and three agents, 57 signatures, two trees worth of paper and one fire alarm later, I became the proud owner of one helluva house. Friday my parents and I actually came over with a load of tools, grungy clothes, patio furniture (currently the only furniture) and an air mattress and settled in to work.

Here was our to-do list over the weekend:
1. Fix the leak under the sink
2. Fix the outspout from the waterheater as it doesn't actually drain outside the house but rather directly into the wall (clever).
3. Remove satelite dish and accompanying mile or so of thick black wire which is strung carefully over every surface of the house.
4. Patch holes in attic to protect from "varmints" (my inspector actually said the word "varmints" in a sentence)
5. Patch holes in screens

Here's what we actually did:
1. Located the leak, which is actually from the dishwasher, which we are learning is made entirely from irreplaceable parts. It is located, but not fixed.
2. Detached half of the wire from the satellite dish, and pulled it out of the drilled holes in the siding and walls. The actual dish itself required different tools than I had while I was on the roof, so I left the roof and then forgot about the dish. Hmmm.
3. Patched for varmints. Wouldn't want any varmints.
4. Ripped the carpet off the stairs - potentially the most vile and repulsive of all activities. Never again will I have carpet in a house. I don't think I can bear to look at other people's carpet. Do you know what's under there? Do you? The dirt from under the carpet weighed more than the carpet itself. Completely repulsive.
5. Vented frustrations with a crobar on all those damn little spikey things that they use around carpet edges to fasten them down. There are still miles of them, but at least they're off the stairs and out of the living room.
6. De-popcorned not one but two ceilings. TWO! This is potentially the second most disgusting job ever because first you spray everything with water, liberally coating yourself in the process, then you scrape a thick layer of goo that smells like a beverage room from a motel from the 1950s off the ceiling directly on to your person. Repeat.

Essentially we worked all weekend, managed to inflame or somehow aggravate every muscle in our collective bodies, and completed one out of five of our goal tasks. Awesome. I'm going to curl up on my air mattress in my sleeping bag and pretend I'm at the Hilton.

Closing? Not Closing?

Hmmm. So given my closing date was supposed to be Friday, I can guess that the assumption would be that I'm knee-deep in spackle and thus unable to blog about the house. Sadly, this is not the case. In fact I'm knee-deep in nothing. Wandering aimlessly, picking things up and putting them down again. We didn't close. I didn't close. Sigh.

I've been told by my mortgage guy (Rasty - he's a hoot!) that it will be Monday or Tuesday. Tuesday? Really? So not only do I miss the weekend I miss Monday as well? I don't fully understand what the problem is but Rasty gets on the phone with me, talks for 20 minutes, and somehow I feel reassured in spite of the fact that a) I'm still not closing and b) I still don't know why not. I suppose that is what makes him good at his job.

I've been largely useless this weekend - I went to Jan and Marg's to marvel that they have knocked out a window and door and subsequently framed them out, drywalled, taped and floated. In theory I was going to help, but I arrived towards the end and so just stood around as they (with the significant help of THall) finished up. I've also watched movies (Yes, "Run Fatboy Run!" Really is all of that and more) and read smutty romance novels, not currently having the mental fortitude to read actual books. Oh god that's sad.

The only event of note has been a sweat lodge hosted by a friend that turned out to be an incredibly heartwarming (pardon the pun) event with a great community of people coming together to actually work on themselves. It was refreshing to be around people who were so simply down-to-earth, and the lodge was similar in outcome to meditation - it left me with a sense of wellbeing, of calmness, of me-ness that was unexpected. Especially given that I still haven't effing closed. Apparently it did nothing to improve my foul-mouth.

Hysterical displacement activities.

At this moment, I am unable to get into the house to start (and subsequently become frustrated with) my construction projects. Instead I have to drum up vaguely-related projects to fill the time constructively (ha ha! Constructive construction projects. Clearly didn't study English in school.) My only other option would have been drinking myself into a stupor to waylay the anxiety.

To pass the time, I have refinished my parent's old set of patio furniture, rebuilt a little hexagonal table that I found in the trash about a year ago, and gone on a serious garage sale-ing trip. Actually, the garage-sale gods have been good to me, providing me with a charming wheelbarrow ($3), a shovel ($4), a doorknob and cute little outdoor light fixture (combined $1), a laser level ($2 but only because I felt kind of sorry for the family selling it so didn't argue), and a fold-up wire shelf for plants etc... ($4). Also two lovely baby sago palms ($0.50) and a spade ($0.50). Grand total $15!! Not to mention the giant brandy snifter that mom found to replace the one she broke (then cunningly fixed with duct tape - no one would ever notice!) and the two necklaces that Marg bought and broke within the span of two hours. Of course there is the minor detail of the $9.99 for minwax (to protect shovel and wheelbarrow handles), the $4.99 package of batteries for the laser level, the $7.99 for spray rust-oleum paint for the light and the yet-to-be-determined price of replacement screw thingies to hold the globe in the light fixture. Huh.

In any case, I'm feeling quite smug about the rebuilding of the little hexagonal table. It was a little loose and wobbly-jointed, so I not only re-glued everything, I also fashioned little braces for the part where the legs join to the top. Truth be told, they are braces of a silly size for the table but what they lack in grace, they more than make-up for in enthusiasm. I'm relatively sure I could now run over the table with little to no appreciable damage. Clearly, a rebuilder of fine furnishings I am not, but I'll be damned if my table will be susceptible to anything less than nuclear detonation. For reference, see picture.