Marsha Canham's Blog, page 4

Kitchen Guy showed up!!!!!!

But not until 12:15, and not with the rest of my kitchen in his truck as promised. And almost the first thing he did was take a wrong step off a footstool and twist his ankle. *snort*

He arrived with the new cupboard shells to replace the old ones. As I mentioned in an earlier whine, the upper cabinets were measured wrong and they were five inches too short. Now, had I known for sure he was going to show up, I would have emptied all the cupboards ahead of time so he would just have to pop the old ones off and drill the new ones up. But having been fooled before, despite promises to appear, I didn’t quite trust Houdini this time, so the first thing HE had to do was empty out the cupboards. And of course, halfway through clearing them, he stopped and swore because, yes, he was one cupboard short. Seized by a brain fart, he had forgotten about the cupboard over the sink, which was also the wrong height. Whilst cursing and swearing and laying the excuses and apologies on really REALLY thick, he misstepped coming off the two foot foot-step dufus, landed on his butt and clutched his eye, looking very much like he’d stabbed himself in the eye with the metal tape measure. I must admit some of my hostility waned at the though of having to rush him to the nearest hospital with a tape measure sticking out of his eye, but that too passed when he said it was his ankle, and that he had done it numerous times before, and damn, he might have to miss his hockey game that night.

The Death Stare  returned.

Now, I have known Kitchen Guy since he was brought home from the hospital in his mother’s arms. He’s gone through various identities, beginning way back as Crash Kelly from his tendancy to crash into things, people, animals…whatever was in his way. He and the Clone were best buddies until we moved half a province away. In his late teens, he started working for his father, helping out in the Woodworking Shop and after he finished school, he worked there full time, and I must admit,as Cabinet Guy,  he built me some damned fine cabinets. He did my office furniture, which has been moved twice  and altered twice and still looks as good as it did the day it was installed. He did my horse cabinet and my hugemongous armoire in the bedroom, plus curio cabinets and dining room hutches and various other pieces that I envisioned in my head but couldn’t find in any store. When I was looking for a new house, in fact, one of the prime requisites was that the armoire, the office furniture, and the horse cabinet would fit. That’s why it took three years to find the right place.

Anyway, when his father retired and moved up north, Cabinet Guy took over the business and became Kitchen Guy, focussing mainly on high end kitchens. So it was only natural that he was the first phone call I made after buying the Quirky New House. He actually came with me on one of the house inspections to take measurements and draw up plans…back in July.

Zoom forward four months and he’s laying on the floor clutching his eye and seeking sympathy. Nope. Not unless there was blood spewing forth, which there wasn’t. Having been limping around myself for a month since I started shlepping boxes from the other house, I welcomed him to the Limping Club, poured a glass of wine and watched him limp back and forth taking cupboards down and putting cupboards up.  I will say he redeemed himself in a major way when he produced the two glass cabinet doors for the wine glass cupboard. Working in stained glass myself, I was really, truly pleased with how marvellous the leaded windows turned out. They perfectly match the original leaded glass door that separates the kitchen from the rest of the house. It was taken down and moved to the garage to avoid any chance of accidental damage, so I haven’t seen them side by side yet, but the match is amazingly precise. So yeah, that cheered me up a bit. So did the nifty new garbage bin system he installed. It’s almost as cool as the newfangled lazy susan he put in the lower corner cupboard…you know the cupboard that is always four feet deep that you have to get on hands and knees and stretch your arms till your tongue hangs out in order to access the stuff at the very back?  And even if you put a regular lazy susan in, it normally takes a hinged cupboard that opens halfway into the kitchen and you still have to crouch to your knees to spin it around and reach stuff. Well, he put in a newfangled gizmo that opens like a sliding drawer with two metal shelves,  then it takes a turn to the right and pulls out further to bring a second set of shelves sliding forth. Farking amazing. Barely have to bend over and doesn’t take any more space than a regular cupboard door.

How cool is that?

So now, amidst limping, drilling, shlepping, Kitchen Guy gives me the new timeline. He now has to make a new cupboard to replace the one he forgot to replace this time around. He is taking final measurements for the fan hood/cupboard, which he is building and promises it will be splendid. He took final measurements for the bathroom vanity and laundry storage unit, which he couldn’t do, in all generous honesty, until Bathroom Guy finished hooking up the washer and dryer and the shower went in. Dominoes again, I tell ya. He PROMISES to have all the cupboards and cupboard doors installed before I leave for Florida, but warned me that the crown moulding will not be done by then cuz that too is being hand made and needs to have all the cupboards in place before a final measurement can be taken. He has again promised splendor, so we’ll see. Even though it has taken most of my spare nerves waiting for all this to be done and finished, I will say the cupboards are splendid, and despite a snail’s ability to work faster, Kitchen Guy’s workmanship….when he gets the measurements right *snort*…is most excellent.  Anyone else, I likely would have fired a month ago, but because I have faith in the end product, and because I know he would sob on my shoulder and “but…but…but…Mrs Canham” me to death, I shall trust the Kitchen Guy to come through with the promised splendor. It’s already more than halfway there, so I’ll share a few pics of the “before” and “during”.

This was how the kitchen looked before, and keep in mind, the same fisheye lens was used that skews the dimensions.

And the demo begins….

Even in the midst of chaos, diehard card players can make use of paint trays for chip dishes…and one must always move wine glasses into a new house first *snort*. It’s just a rule.

Reassembly begins…with the shorter cupboards, but at this point, any cupboards were good to have, even temporarily.

Moving Day arrived…..the morning after the countertops were installed, thank goodness.

Yeah, that was fun. As soon as one pile was unpacked, another pile took its place.

View of the island and eat-in section of kitchen…it almost looks finished from this angle *snort*

Until you turn around. This is with the shorter cabinets…but still a glimmer of splendidness starting to appear.

Here are the taller cabinets. You can just see on the far left, the *forgotten* cabinet still 5 inches short. And the middle missing cabinet door has to be shaved a bit to fit.

My splendid wine cabinet doors that almost make up for some of the angst.

The door beside the cabinet is still in the garage, but it should look quite spiffy when it’s put back in place.

So here are some side by sides. I had to patch my pics in places to compensate for the fisheye lens on the originals, but it gives a fair idea.

According to the new timeline, I have Bathroom Guy coming *some time* this week to install the backsplash and fan hood, which should improve that patchy-wall look immeasurably. Then the week after that, Kitchen Guy limps back to finish the doors, install the bathroom vanity, the laundry cupboards……possibly delivering nirvana…we shall see.

Hope I haven’t bored anyone with all of this. I met one of the neighbours while I was out walking Suzie the other day and she had also bought an old Victorian and renovated. Hers took four months. I figure mine will come in at around six by the time the upstairs bathroom is gutted and the two fireplaces are refaced and all the wall units built. Thankfully, I shall be enduring the second round of dust and chaos via email only, viewing whilst sipping wine under a palm tree. bwahahahahahahaha

The Saga goes on…and on…

After a week and a half, still no sightings of Kitchen Guy, though he has promised to show up tomorrow…Friday…23 November…you are all witnesses. Bathroom Guy has also been the Invisible Man, although he has an excuse…not much he can do until Kitchen Guy gives him the go-ahead to do the backsplash in the kitchen. Glass Guys showed up, five days later than originally planned, and the shower doors did go on, which is why I thought I would post a few pics. They won’t be “before and after” but more like “before and during” *snort*

First, my quirky little house from the outside. Some of these pics were taken by the real estate agent through a fisheye lens so they look a little skewed. But you can get the general idea.

 

Not to forget, my little plaque designating it as a heritage building:

 

And my only addition to the outside….an equally quirky birdhouse

 

This was the original bathroom on the main floor. I liked to call it the bowling alley bathroom because it was long and narrow and had fixtures right out of a 50′s bowling alley, including the spiffy pink sink and terlet, with matching pink tiles and pink streaks in the genuine arborite countertops. The camera lens makes it look deceptively wide, unlike the exterior of the house which looks deceptively small, but believe me, there was just enough room to get my hips past the washer and dryer *snort*

 

That would be the shower at the very back. Sort of a tiled closet with unique venting system…half a louvre door nailed above the shower door. The washer and dryer were puny apartment-sized, good for doing a single towel at a time, and since the dryer wasn’t even hooked up or vented, I suspect the former owners used the laundromat down the street.

 

The demo begins

 

 

Whilst tearing out the walls, they found two of the original windows and a farm door. I plan to save the one window by sanding down the frame and replacing the glass with mirror.

 

Here it is all gutted, bulkheads gone, closet shower gone and the wall opened up, ceiling raised about a foot and a half after taking out the goofy florescent fixture.

 

 

And here…new drywall, shower getting tiled…

 

 

And today, with terlet in place, the glass doors installed. Still waiting on the vanity and lights and cabinets, but at least it’s functional and awful purdy *s*

 

Tomorrow, after Kitchen Guy leaves…if he shows up…I’ll post some pics of that next.

The saga continues.

So it’s been a week and you’re probably all waiting with bated breath to hear that the Kitchen Guy showed up and swapped out the cupboards, installed the fan hood, added the crown moulding, replaced the doors, gave the Bathroom Guy the go-ahead to do the backsplash and generally just made my kitchen look like a kitchen?

Unless you want to turn blue, take a deep breath and release it. (reminds me of an evening back in Ajax, about 20 or so years ago when a neighbour called up and asked if I wanted to go to a “relaxation” seminar with her. As I recall, I was on deadline and stressed to the max, so I said sure, I’m game.  We went and there sat some high priest or monk or guru in bright orange who talked for an hour and a half about bad air and good air and made us hold one nostril while we breathed in good air then swap nostrils to breath out the “red” bad air. An hour and a half breathing in one nostril and out the other. Wasn’t too bad till the guy in front of me started snoring, which of course started me laughing…one of those laughing fits you can’t stop? Orange Guy kept glaring at me with one flared nostril until I finally had to leave the room to stop laughing.)

So no, Kitchen Guy hasn’t been seen for a week and a half. Hasn’t been heard from since I sent him a nastygram email at 5am one morning reminding him he still had the f*&king bathroom cabinets to measure and build so Bathroom Guy could finish HIS job.

Which neatly segues into Bathroom Guy. He was here every day right up to Monday, doing what he could do, so I can’t knock him for that. Or wait…maybe I can. Monday was the day I took my car for an oil change and left Bathroom Guy holding a drill and eyeing the wall in the kitchen where the new vent for the stove fan had to be cut through. Keep in mind, the original walls in this joint are about a foot thick, and he could see the aggravation Electrical Guy went through just to drill a simple hole to thread new wiring through, so I’m sure he wasn’t anticipating any pleasure or ease cutting through an outer wall. I think it was a good thing I wasn’t here to actually see or hear the hole being reamed out. When I got back, however, he was finished and gone, a shiny tin pipe was protruding from the wall with the added decorator touch of a burgundy towel stuffed into the open end. The counters were covered in a fine layer of dust. The floors were covered in a fine layer of dust. The floor in front of the counters looked like it had been stamped for dance lessons, with footprints ground into the hardwood giving instructions for the Samba. The sink was full of freshly rinsed dishes and utensils, so he had obviously made an attempt to clean up some of the fallout. He’s normally good that way, and will even go the extra yard and vacuum the whole kitchen if it’s his dust making the mess. I’m guessing most of what was on the counters was residual crap that settled after he left. Cept for the dance instructions on the floor. Hmm.  Now Tile Guy was the best in that department. His momma should be proud. At the end of every work day, he tidied up his tools, put everything away, then got out a bucket and sponge and washed the whole floor!!!!!

I digress. So I wiped all the counters down again, washed the stuff Bathroom Guy either missed or didn’t think would gather dust, like the two steel containers that actually HOLD the utensils that he rinsed. Yeah, they were full of sawdust and drywall dust. Moved everything, wiped everything, washed the infernal floor…again. (I have washed the kitchen floor more times in the past month than I ever did in thirteen years at the other house. Which also brings to mind the Cleaning Wench who was going to come and clean the new joint on my regular day, a scant week after I moved in, and I said Uhhhh…no. At that time there were literally little pathways winding around the mountains of boxes, none of the rooms were organized, and there was new dust clouds every day. Being as meticulous a cleaner as she is, she probably would have fainted in the doorway, bashed her head on a box, we’d have to call EMS, who wouldn’t be able to get the ambulance up the driveway because of all the trucks, so they’d have to carry her down the steep slope on a stretcher, and she’d probably slide off and end up mashed against the fence, or worse, shoot all the way to the road on the flattened path of unraked wet leaves, and get run over by a passing car….  Nah. I cancelled that visit and told her I would be in touch when there was something to actually clean.)

Where was I?  Oh yes, cleaning the kitchen. So when all was tidy, dust-free, swabbed and swept, I made myself a much-deserved cup of coffee. Went to get my cup out of the cupboard and….a tiny waterfall of dust and sawdust spewed forth onto my clean counter. AUGHHHHHHHH. Every cupboard, every shelf…drywall dust and sawdust. And of course, the corner where the hole was cut has the most cupboards clustered around it, so after I used every version of f**k I knew…as an adjective, verb, noun, adverb…I had to take everything out  to clean again.

Now…is it just me? Or is it  men in general who suffer from brain farts? Me, as a woman, knowing I was going to create a Vesuvius of dust and debris, I would have covered the cupboards either with a dropsheet or with some form of plastic. If not to save them from dust and destruction, just to save them period since they’re new and custom made and cost a blinkin fortune!!!!! A ten cent garbage bag taped over the top and hanging down would have saved all the aggravation. Or…*gasp*…MOVING the stuff off the counter and over to the island and covering it would have avoided the whole rinse and dry rinse and dry issue entirely!!!!!! AUGHHHHHHHHH!

On to the bathroom itself. Tile Guy did his job and the shower is magnificent if I do say so myself. And as mentioned, Bathroom Guy did what he could do without Kitchen Guy/Cabinet Guy putting in the cabinets and vanity. He left me a note on the Monday saying the Glass Guys would be here on Friday to install the 8 ft glass doors for the shower, and thankfully, I have learned to hold a nostril and let out that bad red air and not hold my breath waiting, cuz yes, you guessed it, Glass Guys did not show up.  Electrical Guy was here to connect the washer, dryer, dishwasher (Yay, Yay, Yay,) but he couldn’t do anything more in the kitchen until Kitchen Guy shows up from whatever mountain retreat he’s vanished into to swap out the wrong sized cupboards for the right sized cupboards and gives Bathroom Guy the go-ahead to tile the backsplash.

Today’s hopeful little mission is to move a couch out of the family room that is standing on it’s end because it doesn’t fit up the stairs to the TV room. The Clone is supposed to come get it, assuming his mother in law’s spouse kindly provides a truck capable of shlepping it the six blocks down the street. Going also is the island that used to be in the kitchen before it was gutted. My DIL spied it as it was being marked for demolition and threw her body across it, claiming it for a bar for their basement. Fine. They moved it out intact over a month ago and it’s been sitting in front of my garage draped in a bright blue tarp ever since. Gone. I want it gone. I already feel like I’m living in an episode of Hoarders with all the junk still lying around outside…although thanks to Number One Grandson, the mountain of empty boxes that was piled on the front deck was all shlepped down to the curb on recycle day. And I do mean a mountain. He made about ten trips hauling it all down, folding and stacking and packing the piles…pinning them down with sections of an old toilet. I’m not surprised that only one neighbour has ventured up the driveway to say hello. I’d be inclined to think Granny Clampett had moved into the ‘hood too.

Breathing. I’m still breathing. Laminate Guy is supposed to show up today to finish installing the quarter round in the rooms upstairs. I won’t even tell you what HIS excuse was for not showing up the last four times he said he would. I’ll just say it was an excuse I’ve never heard before and original enough I couldn’t even think of a comeback.

Kitchen Guy has vowed to have all the work in the kitchen completed the week of the 20th. Of November. That would be next week. My birthday is on Monday, so wouldn’t that be a nice surprise to see trucks in the driveway and cupboards being carried into the kitchen. I might even *gasp* get the baseboards and crown moulding put back on my office wall unit…or *double gasp with swoon* mouldings and baseboard put on the bedroom armoire. The latter also has to be permanently attached to the wall because it’s on a definite tilt forward (love the gently sloping floors all through the house)  and I have visions of waking up one morning pinned under a ton of solid oak from it crashing forward. As it is I have to close my eyes and grope for clothing cuz I get instant vertigo if I stand beside it and see/feel the slant.

Breathe. Good air in, red air out.

Not the end of the saga, I’m sure. As Ahh-nold would say: I’ll be baaaack.

 

We didn’t “do the green thing”. Hah.

A friend sent me this today. Most of the time I skim through chain letters that MUST be forwarded or your left earlobe will fall off, land in a pan of hot oil, cause a fire, and burn down the neighbourhood.  This one sort of made me think and smile at the same time, so I’m forwarding it on to hundreds in the hopes of saving both my earlobes when I delete those pesky emails in the future.

Subject: …..THE GOOD OLD DAYS











BEING GREEN……

Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the much older

woman, that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags

weren’t good for the environment.

The woman apologized and explained, “We didn’t have this ‘green thing’

back in my earlier days.”

The young clerk responded, “That’s our problem today. Your generation did

not care enough to save our environment for future generations.”

She was right — our generation didn’t have the ‘green thing’ in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the

store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and

refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really

were recycled.

But we didn’t have the “green thing” back in our day.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, that we reused for

numerous things, most memorable besides household garbage bags, was the use

of brown paper bags as book covers for our schoolbooks. This was to ensure

that public property, (the books provided for our use by the school) was not

defaced by our scribblings. Then we were able to personalize our books on

the brown paper bags.

But too bad we didn’t do the “green thing” back then.

We walked up stairs, because we didn’t have an escalator in every store and

office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t climb into a

300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

But she was right. We didn’t have the “green thing” in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby’s diapers because we didn’t have the throwaway

kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning

up 220 volts — wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our

early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters,

not always brand-new clothing.

But that young lady is right; we didn’t have the “green thing” back in our

day.



Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house — not a TV in every room.

And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?),

not a screen the size of the state of Montana . In the kitchen, we blended

and stirred by hand because we didn’t have electric machines to do

everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we

used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble

wrap. Back then, we didn’t fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut

the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by

working so we didn’t need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that

operate on electricity.

But she’s right; we didn’t have the “green thing” back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a

plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens

with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a

razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got

dull.



But we didn’t have the “green thing” back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to

school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service

in the family’s $45,000 SUV or van, which cost what a whole house did before

the “green thing.” We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire

bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances.

And we didn’t need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from

satellites 23,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest burger

joint.

But isn’t it sad that the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks

were just because we didn’t have the “green thing” back then?

Please forward this on to another selfish old person who needs a lesson in

conservation from a smartass young person…

We don’t like being old in the first place, so it doesn’t take much to piss

us off…especially from a tattooed, multiple pierced smartass who can’t

make change without the cash register telling them how much.

 

Can anything else go wrong? HAH. Of course it can!

The question should be: can anything please go RIGHT!!!

Moving Day was on a Friday. Plumber’s Hell was on Saturday. Sunday I had a chance to breathe and start looking for stuff. I also had time to calm down and ponder the consequences of driving back and forth over the asswipesonofabitchexhusband with a steam roller until he resembled Flat Stanley. On the Thursday before D-Day,  I had received an email from my lawyer containing details for the closing of the sale of the Dream House, which was to take place the following Thursday. As casually as a cat might swipe a paw out to slash at a passing mouse, he had added: by the way, I assume you know about the lien on your house. It has to be cleared before the sale can go through.

Blink.

What lien? What for? Who, why? And why was I only finding out about it a week before the closing date?

Well, it seems there was a bank going after the sonofabitchratbastardexhusband for moneys he owed them, and because he has fallen into the habit of merely ignoring the rest of the world around him, doesn’t answer mail or honor his debts and responsibilities, the bank had to seek a resolution through the courts.   And because, foolishly, the Dream House was still in both our names, they slapped a lien on it which *I* would have to pay out of the proceeds. Now…ten thousand would have pissed me off. Twenty thousand would have made me want to see a horny elephant backing him into a corner. Thirty thousand would have made me furious enough to stab his body full of holes with a fork. Sums above that would have made me call up rental companies in search of that steam roller.

Apparently no one rents steam rollers to hysterical ex wives.

What recourse did I have? In four days, none. I basically had to pay off the lien or the sale would not go through.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Lawyer’s advice: clear the debt, let the sale go through, then sue his crusty ass for the money. Great. Meanwhile my cash flow is dramatically cut in half, I still have a house full of boxes and contractors and half-finished construction.

Did I mention my car died? Not my every day car, but my beautifully well preserved, not a scratch on it, 1994 sporty little Precidia MX3 (110K km on it, so almost like new) that was to be moved out of the DH garage and driven to the Clone’s house, there to snuggle warmly in *his* garage until the grandson comes of age to zoom around in it. Halloween night we met at the DH to give her a boost and get her started, but despite cables and soft words of encouragement, she didn’t make a sound. Not even a click. We had to push her out into the street and leave her parked in front of a friendly neighbour’s house until the Mechanic Friend who had been tenderly looking after her for the past 18 years could drive out and take a look at her. He would know what was wrong. Over the phone he suggested a fuse, or something electrical, and to me, the way things were going with everything else, I translated that to mean a whole new engine, new transmission, new seats, new tires, new roof, new fenders….*sob*. He said he would be out Monday or Tuesday to have a look at the problem and hopefully fix her.

Sunday night I get a call from his wife. He’s had a mild heart attack. I nearly have one myself because he has been one of the Constant Friends in my life for the past nearly forty years!!!! I’m panicking, his wife is panicking. Her son is waiting to take her to the hospital, where she finds himself sitting up in bed holding court, regaling the nurses with a litany of his bad jokes. On the one hand, thank God he’s feeling so much better. On the other…I would not have put it past his wife to have had Flat Stanley thoughts of her own. It brought back memories of the day Austin was born. The Clone wanted desperately to propose to Imelda before their firstborn was actually born, but the ring he had bought was at a downtown jeweller’s in Toronto being sized. I lived in Ajax at the time, the halfway point between Downtown where the ring was ready to picked up, and Newmarket where my grandson was ready to be born. The son pleaded. I raced Downtown like a madwoman and picked up the ring, breaking all speed records (in my sporty little MX3, by the way) to make the hour long drive up to Newmarket, hopefully in time for the birth, which I was certain I was missing since she’d been in full hard labour since 9am. Close to noon I ran into the hospital, screeched for directions to the maternity ward, ran up the stairs cuz the elevator was too slow, then barrelled through the ward like a linebacker shoving everyone out of my way. An owl-eyed nurse cringed against the wall and pointed to the room I wanted and I burst through the doorway out of breath, panting like a lizard in heat, hair askew, mismatched shoes (which no one ever did notice)….only to find the Clone and Imelda sharing a joke with one of the nurses. Baby? There was no baby. Labour had stopped. No rush. The Clone looked at me with a big grin. Hey mom, you got the ring, that’s great, thanks.

Seriously?

So yes, I know how my friend Helen must have felt with panic flushing through her veins only to see himself sitting up and entertaining a captive audience. Kudos to her for not tipping him out of the bed, wires and all.

And here we are, a week after the day of closing on the other house.  Tile Guy showed up last Thursday and Friday to tile the shower in the new bathroom. He was supposed to come back Monday to finish it but…his wife had a baby, so he may or may not show up this week.

No further sightings of the Kitchen Guy since last week, although his mom and I had a lovely visit Monday and Tuesday. My first overnight house guest. Apparently the heating vents work well on the second floor, cuz she spent most of the night on top of the blankets. I guess that’s why she woke up full of vim and vigor and decided we had to unpack another 20 boxes and clear a large enough space in the family room to actually see the floor and walk around without bouncing off of boxes. We also cleared a path to one of the patio doors so that the extraneous couch, which is still standing on end in the middle of the room. It can now be carried out the door and transported to another abode.

Did I mention the racoons? I guess they thought twenty or so bags of garbage was worth a close inspection. Thankfully the Clone and mini-Clone had showed up Monday night to bundle up the mountain of flattened boxes and drag them down to the road for recycle pickup. The old toilet which had been sitting prominently on the deck made it down to the curb as well, and I’m actually kicking myself that I didn’t take a picture before all the debris was hauled away. I honestly looked like a prime candidate for Hoarders.

Glass Guy’s were here yesterday to measure for the shower doors. Bathroom Guy has promised to come back today to finish sanding the three coats of mud on the drywall…which sorta kinda hints that an end might actually be in sight. He has also promised to have the terlet installed by Friday, although I think I may have pushed my luck when I whined that it would be nice to get the washing machine and dryer out of the front foyer where they have rested for the past three weeks. Would be even nicer to actually be able to USE them. Silly me. Doesn’t everyone wash their bloomers in the kitchen sink?

When they do get moved, Electrician Guy has to come back to connect everything up. He  discovered on his last foray that the bathroom, which also houses the aforementioned washer and dryer, is on the same circuit as all my office equipment and lights. Not good.

And capping off a sterling week, there were snow flurries the last three mornings. Little sparkly white flakes that didn’t last long, but still…harbingers of worse to come. Meanwhile down in Florida, the vanguard of the snowbird klatch is down there sending the rest of us cheery little emails saying she was in the pool, swanning on the deck in 80 degree sunshine, hitting all the bargain sales that she KNOWS will get our fingertips tingling. Bee-atch.

Thus endeth the saga so far. I’m taking the day off today to have lunch with my good friend Jill Metcalf, so if anyone actually does show up today to do anything, it will be a pleasant surprise when I come home. I also got the call that the Mazda is purring happily again and can be brought home. Cable TV still isn’t working right, but WTF. I’m going to rip it out of the walls before I head south then go back to satellite when I come home. It’s simply not worth another hour long call to my “personal moving concierge” just to end up frustrated and tearing out my last few hairs.

In the coming days, if my luck turns and things actually start to go right, I’ll be sure to blog about it and share my wonderment and surprise. I’ll share pictures too, of before and after. Until then…keep your fingers and toes crossed for me. I think I have one nerve left and it’s stretched pretty tight.

Moving closer to Nirvana, but only in my dreams *snort*

Moving Day.

I was up early, and by 8:30 my hair was standing on end from too much caffeine. It’s bad enough having to spend the last night in your Dream Home alone, trying not to think of all the reasons why you never should have sold it. Bad enough to see all the boxes, the furniture taken apart, the mattresses on the floor. Worse to wake up alone, have coffee alone, then run around yelling at yourself for forgetting things you should have done the night before. The trouble with yelling at yourself is that no one yells back so you end up even more frustrated.

No sign of my sister, but two honking big trucks rumbled into my driveway at 8:31. Five guys came with the trucks, all of whom tromped through the house with me noting all the things with patches of green painters tape streaked across them. I reminded them about the armoire…last on so it could be first off. They were initially jovial and joking when they found out no appliances were being moved, but they hadn’t seen my cabinets yet. The horse cabinet weighed a small ton, as did the carousel horse it housed. The aforementioned wall to wall floor to ceiling armoire came apart in four sections but each section was enormous and heavy as only solid oak can be. They started wrapping and padding and slogging things into the truck while I directed and watched and paced, anxious to get over to the New Quirky House to see what was going on there.

My sister arrived with her friend at 11:00, said friend having decided that since they were heading in a northerly direction anyway to get to my house, he might as well take the opportunity to drive a few bazillion miles out of their way to have a look at a used car he was interested in. Really? For punishment I made him carry all of my computer equipment to my car, something that had him looking at me like a deer in the headlights. Apparently he hadn’t expected to come help with a move and actually have to move anything.

I left them in charge and zoomed off with my packed car to the QNH where I was met by Kitchen Guy, who was furiously trying to get my office desk trimmed down and fitted into place before the movers arrived. The desk had only sat in the garage for two weeks needing to be altered to fit the new room, but hey. Day of the move is fine. Not much else going on. *snort* Bathroom Guy met me there as well with some fun news.  Apparently his  plumber had come to do the new waterworks for the main floor bathroom, but he took one look at what had been there for the past umpteen years and backed away like he’d had a peek under Darth Vader’s mask. Apparently the last renovater had neglected to put any sewer vents on any of the pipes, which meant sewer gasses had been coming up into the house all that time and nothing had been flushing or draining properly. He was blatantly amazed that the whole system had not backed up before now and painted a lovely picture of flushing a toilet and having all the icky water flow into the washing machine on it’s final rinse cycle. Charming. Since the work required to fix the problem…ie, rip out every pipe and drainage dufus in the basement and install new ones that had proper slopes and proper vents…was way above his pay grade, he happily left  Bathroom Guy frantically phoning around to find a “master” plumber capable of doing the work. Remember when I said the house inspector had passed everything with flying colors? Plumber Guy said he should have seen the problem with the drainage pipes if he’d been wearing sunglasses in a dark room.

So…the plumbing would be delayed, which meant the drywalling and tiling in the bathroom would be pushed back, which meant I’d be moving in with no facilities on the main floor. Okay, well…I could manage for a day or two, bum knees and all.

Meanwhile, I shifted and moved small mountains of boxes around again to make room for arriving furniture. I also hit the beer store and the bank and the grocery store. Around 3:30 the trucks rumbled up the street. Whilst backing up into the driveway the first truck did a Titanic on Cabinet Guy’s truck, slicing through the front fender and leaving a gash like an iceberg. Cabinet Guy was not amused, especially since this was the third time a vehicle of his had been sliced or diced when it was parked and he was nowhere near it. I guess that would make me sort of twitch too. But that meant everything had to go on hold until the owner of the company showed up and discussed insurance blah blah blah. My sister arrived with the trucks, announced she was exhausted and was leaving, good luck, nice house, and why do you have no kitchen or bathroom?

Breathe in, breathe out.

Insurance matters settled, the Moving Guys start unloading. They used two doors, front and side, so it wasn’t long before I lost track of what was going where. Armoire did come in first and the sections*just* cleared through the narrow doorway. Kitchen/Cabinet Guy was there with his drill and shims to re-assemble the units, but as he had done two weeks before with my enormous attached bookcases, he sort of left the honking long piece of crown molding and base pieces on the floor so that they could be tripped over seventeen times.

By five o’clock most of the first truck had been emptied and furniture was being stacked on top of other furniture. Two items would not fit up the staircase to their designated rooms…a couch and a second more modestly sized armoire. Apparently no one in 1880 had large furniture. Five o’clock also  marked the arrival of the Clone and mini Clone, both of whom were dispatched to the bedroom to put my bed together. I was determined to spend my first night in my own house, so despite much rolling of eyes and heavy breathing, they shlepped off with screwdrivers in hand and voila, I had my bed together in short order.

Kitchen Guy and Bathroom Guy simply vanished. I have no recollection of when or how they left. All I remember is five big guys walking back and forth with boxes and furniture and, thanks to rather good labelling on the part of the Clone when he was packing most of the boxes, they started to actually *read* what was written on each box and putting it in the right rooms. By the time both trucks were empty and the five guys were rumbling away, the garage was full, every room was crammed full of furniture and boxes. We were able to clear a section of the kitchen table large enough to order pizza and collapse.

Next day was Saturday. I woke to the sight of my armoire precariously leaning on a forward tilt, missing two cupboard doors, and with 9 of the 12 drawers jutting out and unable to close cuz they were shoved into the wrong places. Ditto with my desk…none of the 6 drawers were in the right place. I did manage to find a path to the coffee machine, and just in time. The family arrived to help sort through the clutter and not far behind them, banging on the door, were three Big Guys armed with long black pipes and hammers. Plumbers. They walked in like they had been there before and headed straight to the cellar where they started tearing apart all the piping. Miles of it, it seems, was carried up and miles of new stuff was carried down. At one point someone yelled WHOA and, according to my daughter in law, the house filled with the unmistakable odour of sh*t. After that they cleverly turned off the water to the whole house so that if anyone had to use the facilities, we had to pile into the car and drive to the Clone’s house.

Payton and the DIL attacked the family room, unstacking the jumble of furniture and arranging it so you could weave through the maze of boxes without fear of a couch landing on your head. The Clone and Austin were still making trips back and forth to the DH bringing the “ultra fragile” stuff that had no green painters tape. He also brought my birds, who probably thought they had been abandoned. I still had almost a week to completely clear out the DH, but I had arranged for the Cleaning Wench to go in and give it a thorough once-over…or last-over, as the case might be.

Plumber Guys worked until after 7pm,  spending a good deal of time drilling and hammering their way through the rock foundation to lay the new pipes. The water was finally turned back on so at least we had a working bathroom upstairs. There was a sink in the kitchen, but no water hookup yet. Shiney new black pipes in the main floor bathroom, complete with new venting…but no water yet. It would be four…count em…four more days of no water in the kitchen before I whined so much to Bathroom Guy that he hooked up the sink and taps and…oh, the joy! Running water in the kitchen sink. Such a novelty!

Meanwhile, Kitchen Guy came back and said…uh…some bad news. Somehow he had measured half the cupboards wrong. My beautiful custom cupboards were five inches too short, had to be rebuilt and new doors made. I looked around at all the boxes I had already unpacked into those cupboards and he wisely interpreted the red glow in my eyes, quickly assuring me that he would take care of unpacking the shelves and packing them again when the new cupboards arrived.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Did I mention Cable Guy, who came to do a simple install and left five hours later with nothing working? Or the two Cable Guys who came back two days later for two more hours to put in a new main line to the other side of the road, who I insisted should check the TV’s before they left and…nothing was working.

Or the heating? There is only one heating vent for the family room, which is 25ft X 25ft built over an unheated open crawl space. It is the same vent that had once sent heat to the bathroom but had been cut off and rerouted. And yes, you guessed it: the bathroom has no heat at all.

But the worst of it was over…right? What else could possibly go wrong?

On the edge of your seats for Part Four? Why not pick up a copy of The Robin Hood Trilogy? Or The Wind and the Sea? Their predicaments will make mine seem like a walk in the park. *snort*  Something has to.

Part Two of the Search for Nirvana

Nirvana is defined  as:  a place or state characterized by freedom from, or oblivion to, pain, worry, and the external world.

I thought that divorcing the numbnutsasswipe would allow me to achieve that state, but no such luck. Just when I thought he had found a new level to stoop to…or slither to…he dug deeper and found a new one. So, thinking to sever all ties, I put my Dream House on the market and bought a new one that was so different from the DH that brand new memories would be made and savored. It is a quirky, cute Victorian on a street lined with beautiful Victorian houses which, like mine, bear heritage plaques stating what they once were when the village was originally built. Half a block up the street is a church built in 1804, since converted into a house. Beside it is the blacksmith’s home and beside that the wheelright and the boarding house belonging to the Widow Stokes. Mine was a farmhouse that belonged to the town planner, full of original woodwork and a foundation built from field rocks. The perfect atmosphere for writing historical romances. As previously mentioned, the home inspection passed with flying colors. A little cleanup around the electrical box was all that was required. The wiring was all new, so no worries about knob and tube nightmares. One of the three bedrooms upstairs had been converted to a bathroom, complete with jacuzzi. It came with all the appliances, so naturally I sold my house with all the appliances thinking it would be an easy move. The DH, with the basement space included, came in at around 5400 sq feet, and the Quirky New House was a mere 1700 sq feet with no basement to speak of. There is a “cellar” which was dark and gloomy concrete,  full of spiders and  130 yr old dust and rubble. The Clone did a fine job of shovelling it all out and painting all the surfaces with white concrete paint which at least made it look a little less creepy. And, bonus, it came with a cold room that was more than adequate to hold all my wine racks and bottles!

Selling the DH turned into a bit of nightmare, with the sales across the board coming to a screeching halt through the summer months. I took possession of the QNH on Sept 1st, quite happy to have time to repaint and do the few changes I envisioned on my walk-throughs, namely:  gut the kitchen and main floor bathroom and bring them into the 21st century. The kitchen was a good size, but there were six cupboards in total and a smallish island with pot drawers. My kitchen in the DH had 20 cupboards plus a floor to ceiling pantry, plus a large double closet that had shelves put in to hold  assorted *stuff*, plus a separate spice pantry crammed full, as well as a large island with three deep drawers. I won’t even mention the condiment fridge. So the QNH needed a bit of work *snort*

A bit of backstory here. Most of my furniture in my office, living room, family room, bedroom etc was custom made by Kitchen Guy who started out in business as Cabinet Guy. I have known him all of his life. His mom and I were/are best friends. Cabinet Guy took over his father’s business when his dad moved up north to retire and since then he’s concentrated mainly on transforming ho hum kitchens into magnificent kitchens. He was, naturally, the first person I called. He even came out on one of my house inspections to take measurements of the kitchen and bathroom (he has a Bathroom Guy who does work for him during renovations).  The plans were drawn up wherein both the bathroom and kitchen would be completely gutted and new magnificence built in their place. Work would begin even before I got actual possession–once the plans were approved–cuz the cupboards could be built ahead of time then shipped to the house as soon as I had the keys in my hot little hands. It would have been a fine plan had the DH sold right away. But as the weeks dragged on and nothing was happening, I had to delay Kitchen Guy, which delayed the Sept 15 goal of having everything done before I moved in.

That, of course, didn’t stop me from going over every day after I took possession, paint cans in hand, determined to eradicate the yellow walls that were in EVERY room. Yellow and orangy yellow. Every room. Had there been cash flow, I would have hired someone to do it, since the yellow made my eyes roll around as I worked from room to room, but with no cash flow, I had to do the painting myself. I had time, after all, and even though I have two buggered knees and a bad back, I took it slow and easy and gradually eradicated all the icky yellow.

Late September, my DH sold, with a Nov 1 closing date. Perfect. Called up Kitchen Guy and Bathroom Guy the first of October to give them the green light. Called up a moving company to get an estimate for trucks and five guys to move all the heavy stuff. I was determined to be organized and not leave anything to the last moment. *snort* I figured by then I had moved at least half of the bazillion boxes on my own, taking a dozen or so each trip that I made from one house to the other. Oddly enough, no matter how many boxes I stuffed into my car and moved, the mountains of them at the DH never seemed to go down at all. The corners and walls of the new place were starting to get filled, with the spaces closing in, leaving me wondering if I had thrown away or given away enough stuff. And since most of the boxes were designated kitchen or bathroom, all I needed was a kitchen and bathroom to unpack them into.

Bathroom Guy, aka Demo Guy, had already showed up with his crow bars and shovels and had stripped the kitchen to the bare walls. The bathroom was right behind, reduced to a cloud of dust. He stopped periodically to ask me, tongue in cheek, if I wanted to keep the salmon pink sink and matching pink terlet, or if I wanted to reuse the natty pink tiles with the flowered pattern on the border. The shower stall was a dark cave with rusty fixtures and cracked tiles, and an inventive slab of slatted wood over the doors to substitute for a ventilation fan. The room itself was long and narrow, with the sink at one end, then a long pink-veined arborite counter, then a dwarf-like washer and dryer that would be good for washing maybe one sock at a time. Next to that was the pink terlet, straight out of an antiques road show rummage sale. (remember pink toilet paper? Regardless of the boils or hives it caused, it would have gone well with this decor).

By the time Demo Guy finished and the dust settled, the erstwhile bathroom was a long empty space with some nifty discoveries. On one wall, after the tile and drywall came down, we discovered two of the original windows for the farmhouse. One was large and deep-set with the panes of glass still intact for the most part. On the opposite wall was a door that had simply been nailed shut and covered over. Very cool. We also found a newspaper between the wall joists dated 1981, which told us when the pink bathroom was “renovated” and the addition put on the house to add a large family room. I’ve made the executive decision to keep the window and try to save most of the frame. I can cut mirror to replace the glass and it will make for a nifty focal point.

Kitchen Guy, meanwhile, started bringing in his cabinet shells and reconstructing my kitchen. According to the plans, I would end up with just as much space as I had in the DH. Roughly the same number of cupboards but taller and deeper, and a larger island with the new dishwasher built into it.

Did I say *new* dishwasher? Ah yes. When Bathroom Guy was demo-ing the kitchen, he pulled out the dishwasher that came with the house and found the entire thing encrusted with mouse poop. When he asked me what I wanted to do with it, I pointed to the dumpster out in the driveway. Ditto with the dwarf washer and dryer. The fridge, which was not a bad size for an apartment, but nowhere big enough for what I was used to, was throfted out to the garage to be designated thereafter as the pop/beer/condiment fridge. So, out of all the “appliances included” in the sale, I managed to emerge with the stove, an appliance I know works because I set off the smoke alarm the first time I tried to cook a small pizza.

While all of this was going on, the adopted son in law came and ripped up the grotty old carpet in the bedrooms, then used a shovel to scrape up the yellow powder that was once the underpad. Removing said carpet also removed a proportionate amount of funky odor that lingered in the upstairs rooms. New laminate went down and voila, the rooms looked—and smelled—great! But the downstairs was nowhere near even beginning to be finished, so, knowing I had a margin of time for error, I called the moving company and pushed the moving date back for a week. No problem. The new date I chose still wasn’t at the end of the month so they were obligingly flexible.

Meanwhile Bathroom Guy thought he could get me an extra inch or two by demo-ing even more of the bathroom, peeling back another layer of studs and lathing. The walls in these old houses are amazing, as Electrician Guy found out. A simple request to add a few outlets to the new counter configuration turned into five full days worth of morning to evening work as he had to literally tunnel through foot thick walls. Drilling through the floor to run the wires was a treat too, as there was a layer of relatively new hardwood, two layers of linoleum tiles, and a bottom layer of inch thick original planking before he could find the floor joists. He missed on a couple of occasions and hit the solid rock of the foundation. I suspect he runs screaming from the phone when he hears me on the other end, but Kitchen Guy couldn’t finish putting up cabinets until the wiring was in place, and Bathroom Guy couldn’t start the drywalling until the electricals were done. Like dominoes, everything has to fall in order, and at that point nothing was falling anywhere.

The day before The Move, Granite Guy was supposed to show up to install the countertops. I got a call the previous evening from Kitchen Guy asking if I could be at the house for 9am to let the Granite Guy in to measure for the sink opening. Hmm. One would think that would have been a crucial measurement from the outset, but okay. I shlepped over with one eye open and one eye on the clock knowing how much I had to do still to prep for the next day. Granite Guy was on time, thank goodness, and took two seconds to snap out his measuring tape, jot down a number, and leave again. Meanwhile Carpet Guy was coming at 11 to measure for the stairs and hallway, so I hung around, no point going back home just to turn around and come back again. Meanwhile Kitchen Guy called to say the granite would be coming in around one-ish, so again, I hung around, doing some touch up painting, watching the minutes tick by, planning my strategy in my head for the next day. 1 o’clock came and went, 3 o’clock came and went, 5 o’clock came and I was not a happy camper. The SIL returned to finish up some of the laminate and move all of his dusty cloths and saws and workmates so the movers could get into the room with furniture. He said he would stick around for the Granite Guys, who, after a gnarly phonecall to Kitchen Guy, were supposed to be there within the hour. I took youngest grandson back to the house with me and he helped me put big stripes of painter’s tape on all the furniture and boxes that were being moved out the next day. He also helped me pack up the last few big boxes and mark them, something I had planned to take a bit of care and time doing, but by then I was hurling things across the room and just hoping they landed inside the box.  Carter yelling “2 points Grammy” was encouraging. Ten days later, however, and I still haven’t found my hair dryer and other vital stuff that was hurled with such aplomb. A dozen boxes marked GRAMMY’S LAST DAY STUFF lie somewhere under the mountain of other boxes stacked…somewhere.

Back at the house, the Granite Guys finally arrived around 7:30 and did their thing. I wanted to have a look, so back I went and had a happy little moment because the counters did look splendid. Locked up, went home, and prepared mentally for the next day when the movers were to arrive at 8:30. Because it was a Friday and everyone else in my family was at work, my sister had volunteered to come and be The Person at that end of the move, directing the movers, watching for the green painters tape, ensuring they didn’t load things in the wrong order. I was very specific about certain items of furniture, namely a huge armoire for the bedroom that had to be last on the truck and first off. Kitchen Guy, formerly known as Cabinet Guy, had built the armoire and would be at the new house to install it properly. The floors in the Quirky New House are not exactly level, having had 130 or so years to shift and shuffle. My bookcases, for instance, caused Cabinet Guy no end of frustrations because his furniture is all precise and level, where as the floor in the new office played dippidy do in several places. He ended up having to bolt it to the wall and add half a bazillion shims underneath it to get it close to level.

Day of the move arrived. I was up at 5:30, rummaging and packing and fretting. As far as I knew, Kitchen Guy, Bathroom Guy and Plumber Guy were all going to be at the house while Mover Guys were doing their thing, so with visions of the Keystone Cops Do Moving Day, I girded my loins, had another coffee and wondered who would arrive first, the Moving Guys, or my sister, who had promised to be there first thing in the morning.

To be continued …

A three year odyssey into Moving Hell

You may have noticed I’ve been awol from my blog for a few weeks. That’s because I’ve been in Moving Hell. I decided, after three years of Divorce Hell, that it was finally time to sell my dream house…the one I worked so many years to buy and renovate and furnish and landscape to be the home they would have to carry me out of in a wooden box. Yeah. Best laid plans and all that ended the day I discovered my ratbastardskank-boffingturd of a husband had been having an affair with one of my best friends for five years. The rage was instantaneous. If you’ve ever seen the movie Waiting to Exhale, you can picture the reaction, emptying the closets and drawers of anything that belonged to him and hurling it all over the railing to the lower floor, then throfting it all out the front door onto the steps. The only thing I didn’t do was toss a match onto the pile, but that was probably because I was too busy thinking of various ways to tell him what I thought of him and his skank girlfriend to find a match. It took roughly twenty minutes, from the time the first shirt flew over the railing, to the sight of him backing out of the driveway with his car stuffed with his crap, so I didn’t do too badly *snort*.

Informing the rest of the family was the next unpleasant task. A call to the son and a call to the daughter-in-law and within five minutes they were both converging on the driveway, one from home, one from work, both stunned with disbelief. Two bottles of wine later, I put a call into the skank, and when she did her usual cowardly thing of hiding from any unpleasantness, the DIL and I jumped in the car and drove to her house, pounding on the door at close to midnight because I really, really, really wanted to know how someone who claimed to be a “best friend” for nearly ten years, who often came and stayed overnight, who had taken trips with us as couples and trips with just me as my “friend”…could betray my trust and friendship so incredibly badly. Not just me, but her own husband as well. She had convinced my stupidfuckofagutlessratbastard that he was the father of her second child! She had, apparently, even texted him from the hospital bed that he was the father of a little baby girl. She told her husband the same thing. THAT took two months and a DNA test (that I insisted on) to clear up, but by then, she realized the stupidfuck had been kicked out with nowhere to live, so she turned her back on him too…even went so far as to slap a restraining order on him to stop him from whining and pleading with her to run away with him because, after all, she was his Great Love and they had vowed to be together one day no matter how long it took.

Hah. One day was all it took for her to toss him over.

But I digress.

Fast forward three years (and yes, there is a probably a book worth of horror stories in those three years, although I doubt anyone would believe it wasn’t fiction) during which time the stupidfukkingalbatross was like a great weight around my neck. The divorce was quick and uncontested, thank goodness, and I was free from everything but the title of the house which was still in both our names…a total brain fart bit of stupidity that would come back to haunt me three years later. In my defense, I *was* married to the idiot for 35 years, and there was always the foolish hope that he would want to stay a part of the family, even from a distance. He was told he could still come to the Friday night dinners, still see his grandchildren, to whom he claimed to be devoted, still stay a part of the business he and his son owned. The only thing that would never ever ever happen would be me ever taking him back again. He knew my opinion of cheaters. He knew what my reaction would be. And after those 35 years of marriage he ought to have known that once someone breaks my trust and betrays me that badly, they would have better luck surviving a fall off the CNTower into a pit of starving tigers as have any chance of a reconciliation.

So what did he do? He drove the son’s business into the ground. He never made it to a single dinner. And for the last two years has not called or even sent a birthday card or Christmas greeting to his beautiful…and devastated…grandchildren.

In the end, my Dream Home just had too many bad memories to overcome. HE was there, if not in body, in every room where he’d sat and laughed, in the yard where he hosted bbq’s and built bonfires, and chased the kids around. He was in the basement, which he had claimed as his domain and played his infernal 60′s music from the time he came home from work till the time he went to bed. He was in the garage, which was always cluttered with his crap. He was even in the spare room where, I found out after the fact, he would sneak into and boink his skank when she came to visit!!!!!! And every time I looked at the barf stain on the carpet in the family room, I thought unkind thoughts about him for taking my poor Scampi away and not returning her, not even calling me when she was so sick he had her put down. For that, I got an email. Bastard.

I looked on and off over the three years at other houses up for sale, but nothing really shouted out at me. I couldn’t bear the thought of moving to a condo or an apartment, and my knees wouldn’t take a townhouse. Most of the houses that sparked a little interest had major shortcomings as far as taking either my office furniture or my bedroom furniture, or had nonexistent family rooms that would never bear up under the invasion of the grandchildren.

Purely by accident—I was looking up someone else’s real estate listing—I happened across a picture of a lovely little Victorian house that had just come on the market. It looked unique and quirky and, as it happened, the agent was having an open house the next day. So out I went to look at it and instantly fell in love. It was so completely different from all of the houses I had lived in, yet soooo similar in ways to the nifty old house my grandmother lived in, that I called up my agent and went to see it again, this time with an eye to placing furniture, housing the kids, hosting the Friday night dinners, having the gangs over for Christmas….  Everything worked. It was two storeys but the previous owners had converted the living room into a bedroom, which suited my knees and my furniture just fine. It needed a little work (keep that phrase in mind when I get to part two of this blog) on the kitchen and main floor bathroom, but it was priced right, it passed inspection with flying colours (keep that in mind also for part two *snort*) and within the week it was mine. All mine.

Now all I had to do was declutter my Dream Home, list it, sell it, and nirvana would be within my grasp!

To be continued…..

Moving is the pits.

I haven’t blogged much lately because I’ve been pulling out hair by the fistfuls for the past few months. I had to put my beautiful house up for sale. My forever house. It had everything I wanted, everything I worked so very hard for all those years of locking myself away in a tiny room, writing about knights and pirates and highwaymen. But alas, forever turned out to be thirteen years. The “forever” part crashed and burned with the divorce papers, it just took me another three years to realize the house was just too big for one person to handle. Plus it has stairs and I’ve had two knee surgeries in two years and I’m staring down the throat of a full knee replacement so…stairs had to go too.

Luckily my son had been doing odd jobs for me at the beginning of the summer, fixing things that had been neglected for the past three years of divorcedom. He rebuilt a deck and leveled patio stones, graded the interlock, rebuilt some retaining walls, painted and painted and painted inside and out so everything looked spiffy and renewed. Then blam, I decided to sell and, with the object of “decluttering” foremost in mind, Jefferson and Austin managed to fill two huge dumpsters with stuff.

After the dumpsters were filled and hauled away, Jefferson started packing. He went room by room and filled so many boxes, my basement looked like the final scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. There were narrow paths between stacks of boxes eight feet high, and when he finished filling the two huge storage rooms down there, he started shifting things to the garage.  As my clutter dwindled, the giant locust moved to my pantries and kitchen cupboards, emptying them of everything but what I deemed absolutely necessary. He left me with eight plates, eight cups, eight glasses. Spices? Packed. Roasting pans? Packed. Serving dishes? Packed. Did I complain? No. Not when I thought my beeyouteeful house would sell fast. HAH.  Two weeks or so after the listing went up, summer struck, so it was officially the end of the spring buying season. There were showings every day, sometimes two and three stacked like air traffic controlled planes, but for one reason or another, no one was moved to make an offer. One of the very first couples who came through…three times….loved the house but had one of their own to sell first, which, as the weeks moved into hotter and hotter summer weather, met up with the same stumbling block as mine. No one buys houses in the summer. They’re off frolicking at their cottages or horning in on friends and relatives who have cottages. Or they’re out golfing.

And there was I, keeping my counters uncluttered every day, making my bed EVERY DAY!!!!! Something I usually only do if I know there is company coming over. I mean really, who goes into the bedroom every day to inspect whether the sheets are straight and the blankets are tucked in properly? Especially when you live by yourself…it’s just you getting up in the morning from a comfy nest of blankets and pillows arranged just right, and just you snuggling back into that comfy nest the next night. I swear I was getting traumatized by the fact I had to smooth and tuck and plump the blankets and pillows every morning, then drag the bedspread up and artfully toss on the throw pillows. Artful shmartful. It was doubly annoying to have to artfully thwap those same pillows up against the wall each night and try to arrange my sleeping nest again.

Four months. I smoothed and thwapped for four months before a sold sign finally went up. And, as Fate would have it, to the same couple that came through three times and listed their house so they could buy mine. At least I know it’s going to someone who really wanted it and who, by the number of tradesmen who have been coming around, plans to take good care of it.

My forever home.

I’m going to miss it terribly. I’ll miss the forest out back, and if you’ve been watching my facebook page, you can see why. I’ll miss the actual size of the place, even though it’s way too big for just me. I’ll miss my deck and my office with the view of that forest. I’ll miss the firepit and the nights sitting out burning old furniture, setting off fireworks, making brandy-filled smores. My granddaughter was distraught when I said I was selling it because it’s the only house she’s ever known Grammy to live in. Same with Carter. Austin, though he doesn’t remember the Noake house, hasn’t said much but I’m sure he’ll miss it too. I can still hear the front door getting flung open and a little voice yelling “Grammy we’re here! Can we sleep over!!!”  I’ll miss the Christmases when we sat 22 people for dinner, stretching tables out through the kitchen and into the family room and still had room for a hugemongous tree beside the tables. I’ll miss my huge, sweeping willow trees, and  I’m sure Suzie will miss having a half acre yard to run around in.

I”ll have a new forever house soon, and it will be all mine. Hopefully I’ll last another thirteen years in it. Oddly enough, every house I’ve lived it, it’s been for thirteen years.  This one is technically shy of the thirteen by four months, but close enough.  I’ll be taking a LOT of good memories with me…and some ugly ones…but the good far outweigh the bad, so for the most part I’ll still smile at my house when I drive past it.

My office is being broken down this coming Monday and because I’m not real good at sitting on the floor to use a computer, I’ll be relegated to the iPad for checking mail etc.  This may well be the last blog for another few weeks,  at least until I get connected again at the new abode, so think kind thoughts when you think of me buried under mountains of boxes and used packing paper.

One thing I won’t be doing, however *evil snicker* is making my bed!!!  Woo hoo!

Sneak a Peek at Susan Connell today…

Pour a coffee and welcome bestselling author and winner of the Golden Leaf Award, Susan Connell.  She started her writing career at Bantam/Doubleday/Dell (now Random House) and Harlequin Silhouette.  She now publishes in, as she calls it, “the world of ebookery.” She and her husband are parents of three grown daughters. They (without the daughters) recently spent a winter in an Italian hill town – an experience she wants to repeat. Susan is drawn to exotic locales (Peru, Ivory Coast, New Zealand, Spain and other equally fascinating places.)  This started with her great grandfather’s collection of very old National Geographics. Once a year she takes off with a small group of girlfriends who also enjoy her penchant for adventure – white water rafting, zip lining, camel treks, to name a few of their travel experiences.  If you meet her be sure to ask her about her encounter with a Barbary ape while visiting Gibraltar.

Susan finds creating characters with good hearts and moral challenges is another enjoyable experience.  Making her readers laugh doesn’t hurt either.  She says her motto is “Well behaved women seldom make history.”

How true is that!

From Susan:

Is anyone having a hard time believing summer is over? I know I am. Even though I live where warm weather is an all year prospect, once Labor Day is behind me the pace of life seems to pick up quickly. Autumn holidays begin begging for plans, December is already demanding plane reservations, and this year (cue the theme music from Jaws) the presidential campaigns will be in a fever pitch mode demanding our attention. If curses came true the person who invented robo calls would be living in hell’s basement…with bad plumbing…hard furniture…and nothing good to read.Stop me before I curse again.

Where is the escape button when you need it? Seriously, wouldn’t it be great to go back in time for a few more relaxing days of summer? An ice cold drink, a swaying hammock, or maybe that beach chair placed just so under that beach umbrella (you know, the one with fringe) and your toes dug into cool sand?

Well, here’s the bad news: It’s a no-go because time travel hasn’t been perfected.

But here’s the good news:  You can still pour yourself that drink and if that hammock or beach chair isn’t available, curl up in that favorite reading spot you have and open up your e-reader (Kindle, Nook, etc). BAM! It’s summer all over again with The Big Beach Book.

This ebook (for $4.99) contains 3 classic romance novels, each one set in a different American beach town.  A Woman To Blame takes place down in the Florida Keys, Glory Girl is set on the Jersey Shore and A Man Like This will have you longing for a stay on an island of Florida’s west coast.  I hope that sounds inviting because I meant it to be.

 

An excerpt from The Big Beach Book, Volume 2, Glory Girl.

She had to hand it to him; he certainly had a vivid imagination, and no small amount of courage to present this idea to her.

“You said you had a perfectly innocent reason for asking me up to your bedroom. And this is it? This is what you’ve been so secretive about for the last week? This is why you left weeding the tomatoes all to me?” Holly planted both hands on her hips and paced in front of Evan. “Strolling the boardwalk on Fiesta Fantasy Night is the craziest idea I’ve ever heard. You know Dennis Cracci will be up there taping, and so will a bunch of other reporters. The whole reason to go there is to be seen. Be stared at. Be found out.” She sank into a rattan chair and folded her arms. “Listen, why don’t we just stay here and watch it on local cable?”

Evan stood his ground. If she didn’t accept this idea, he didn’t know what he was going to do to get her out. He couldn’t count the times in this last week together that he’d offered to take her, in the dark of night, for a drive. She’d always refused. Well, she wasn’t going to refuse tonight. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that many of the proceeds are going to children’s charities around the state.”

“Don’t try making me feel guilty. It won’t work.”

He held out the suit. “But this will. Trust me.”

She motioned with both hands. “That outfit couldn’t possibly disguise me. You’re dressed in the same thing, and I recognize you. Let’s just forget it.”

“Not so fast. There’s more to the disguise than what you see here.” He twirled the linen suit for her inspection. “Humor me and try it on.” Wagging his finger, he smiled that devastating smile.

When he headed for the bathroom Holly shook her head, stood up, and blithely followed. “Lord, you’re determined, but it won’t work. Costumes never do. I always knew everyone on Halloween.”

Ignoring her protests, Evan hung the suit on the hook behind the door, ripped off its plastic cover, and stepped back. “Note the design here.” He ran his hand over the garment like any good suit salesman. “Guaranteed to hide every gorgeous curve of—”

“Evan Jamieson, you don’t know everything.”

“I know you slept in my bed when I was away.”

Before she could stop and think she responded, “How did you know that?”

“I didn’t. Not until you admitted it just now. Aren’t you going to ask me why I thought you had?”

“No. Look, I’ll try this on,” she answered, desperate to avoid his playful look. “You’re the only one who’ll ever see me in this.” Evan’s idea was insane, but if trying the clothes on would allow her to escape his question and end his determination to take her out in public, she’d try them on. She waved him out, closed the door, and quickly pulled off her shorts. Certain she’d be back in the rest of her clothes soon enough, she didn’t bother removing her silky black T-shirt. Stepping into the full-cut trousers, she pulled them up and fastened them. One of the bathroom walls was fully mirrored, and she turned to look at what she’d put on so far.

“Hey,” she shouted through the door. “How’d you know my size?”

“I’ve been studying your body from every angle.”

She smiled into the mirror before reaching for the jacket. Noting the label, she winced. He’d obviously spared no expense for this hopeless idea, she realized as she pulled on the designer piece. “Just who are—who were we supposed to be?”

“Glad you asked. I thought with the mustaches and cigars—”

Holly yanked the door open. “Mustaches and cigars?”

Evan, sporting a newly applied mustache, round tortoiseshell glasses, and a slicked-back hairdo, breezed into the spacious bathroom.

Holly gave a little shriek. “I can’t believe it. I swear, for a split second I didn’t know it was you.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Great. That’s the reaction we want. I thought beards would be too itchy, especially since you’ve never had one.”

“Gee, thanks. I’ve never had a mustache either.”

“You will in a moment.” He backed her up and sat her down on the rim of the whirlpool tub, then dropped the toilet lid and sat down facing her. “About that little hormone problem…” He pulled a box from his pocket, opened the kit, and set it on the sink. “Voila!”

Holly couldn’t help smiling as she watched Evan push up his sleeves. Unscrewing the small tube of adhesive, he studied her upper lip like a doctor preparing for surgery. Even if they weren’t going up on the boardwalk, even if she was stuck behind his fence for another night, his boyish charm and energy promised definite mental escape. Perhaps that’s what he’d been planning all along. He couldn’t really be expecting her to leave the safety of his compound. Her train of thought was smoothly derailed by the sensation of Evan’s thighs as they pressed against her knees. He’d leaned in to stare at her face and a mix of images vied for first place in Holly’s thoughts.

Two kids playing dress up…

Evan’s thighs pressing against hers…

The tub’s cool rim beneath her fingers as she strengthened her grip…

Evan snipping at her auburn mustache with manicure scissors…

Beneath his own mustache his lips pursed in concentration…

She was melting.

Holly swallowed hard and studied the design on the shower curtain. After an endless moment she spoke. “Who did you say you were supposed to be?”

“Reginald Q. Coxswain here, argyle socks salesman from Kennebunkport.” The exaggerated New England accent sent Holly into a fit of chortling.

He pushed his glasses above his forehead. “Ready?”

Holly pressed her lips together and gave a quick nod.

“Lean in so I can put this thing on you.” Evan dabbed at her upper lip with a dry washcloth, laid it slowly over their thighs, then lifted the tube of adhesive. “Don’t move. I’ve never put a mustache on anyone but me.”

Holly’s eyes widened as a tickling line of adhesive was applied above her mouth. “What?” she asked through clenched jaws. “You haven’t done this? Ever?”

He recapped the tube and, without taking his eyes from hers, tossed the tube over his shoulder and into the sink. “Don’t move… not a muscle.” Her lips quivered as she fought back laughter. “If you move those lips one more time, I’ll kiss you.”

“I’m trying. I swear I’m trying,” she said before a fit of laughter overtook her. Whatever happened tonight, she knew she’d remember the laughter the most. The giggling, outrageous fun he’d given her was already a treasured memory. She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. “Okay, I’m okay.” But she wasn’t. “You look so funny in that mustache and those glasses and your hair… and when y-you—” she began, then fell against his chest and burst out laughing again. As she slid to the floor, he began laughing too.

How long he’d wanted this! To see her joyful. To see her free of her burdens, if only for an evening. He watched her sitting on the floor, her head resting on the rim of the tub as she held her sides. Wouldn’t she be fun to have at his side out there in the world, sharing life’s pleasures! Or, just the two of them alone laughing intimately at a shared secret. Hell, he wanted her close even when she cried, because he loved her. With all his heart he loved her.

After a few minutes Holly wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s your mustache. You twitch it every time you get close to me.”

Evan shoved a hand through his hair, then pinched his nose. It wasn’t time to tell her he loved her, not yet. “Perhaps I should have planned on matching straitjackets.” He helped her back to the rim of the tub. “Seriously, now, before your adhesive dries.”

“Yes, sir.”

Supporting her jawline with his thumb, he kept her face tilted upward, and her gaze locked with his. His gaze drifted lower and, after careful positioning, he gently patted the mustache in place.

“How do I look?” Her speech was slurred as she forced her face to remain still. It wasn’t easy with Evan’s face inches from her and his fingertips gently holding the sides of her face.

“Like someone I once refused to fly out of Colombia. Be still.”

With him around she found she was never still. She either wanted to run to him or from him. Right now she wanted to move about four inches closer, but people in hell wanted ice water, and that didn’t mean they could have it. She sighed.

His fingertips lingered near the edges of the mustache, then began tracing a tantalizing pattern on her lips. She eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Checking for symmetry. Don’t talk. You’ll come unglued.”

You got that right, she thought, as she stared at the wide lapels of his light linen jacket. Coming unglued was exactly how she felt. With him so near, so determined, and so much fun, she didn’t look forward to telling him all his carefully laid plans weren’t going to work. His intentions were admirable, but how could a fake mustache and a baggy suit shield her from the crowds? For that matter, how could Evan? Well, she might as well get it over with. “Can I look now?”

Evan checked his watch and eased away from her. “Sure.” He stood up, then offered her his hand.

“By the way, who was I supposed to be?” she asked taking his hand.

“Holly, meet Carlos, the emerald salesman. Up close and personal.” He pointed to the mirrored wall beside them.

With more interest than she wanted him to see Holly stood up and turned. She was speechless. The image staring back at her was startling. She lifted up her hair, twisted it tightly at the crown and studied the effect. “I—I look like Uncle Jimmy. Ev, I look just like my uncle Jimmy.” For the first time that evening she began to see the possibility of a night out. A real night out. Letting her hair fall back around her shoulders, she turned around to Evan. “Oh, my. This is amazing. Really.”

“Pull up your hair again, and we’ll try it with the hat.” He left the bathroom, and she followed.

“You got us hats too?” She caught her reflection in his dresser mirror, lifted her hair once again, and waited. “Hurry.”

He returned from his walk-in closet wearing a hat and carrying another. “Why? Are we going somewhere?” Standing behind her he placed the woven straw hat on her head. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror. “Kind of like a straw fedora,” he explained, standing back.

Tipping it forward to angle slightly over one eye, Holly studied her altered image. There was no denying it. Evan had succeeded in obliterating most every recognizable feature of the Glory Girl. “My own parents wouldn’t know me,” she whispered. Her gaze suddenly connected with his in the mirror. “Do you really think this will work?”

“I think… Carlos the emerald salesman knows how to fill out a T-shirt.”

She glanced at the very feminine line her breasts made through the silky black top under the jacket, then sighed loudly. “What are we going to do with them?”

His hands slipped under her jacket and around her waist, then his fingers did a tickling walk halfway up her ribs. “I thought you’d never ask,” he replied in his best lecherous drawl. Before she could react, he withdrew his hands and buttoned her jacket. “Come on, Carlos, we’ve got some deceiving to do. Let’s get the hell out of here and have some fun.”

Holly shook her head as she continued to stare into the mirror, but she was smiling. “I didn’t say I was going.”

“Well, say you’re going and let’s go.”

“Evaaaan?” Her whine was grating and entirely theatrical.

“Yes?”

“Can I pleeeease wear the glasses?”

Evan sighed, and with elaborate exaggeration reluctantly pulled off the glasses. “Oh, all right, but I get to light my cigar.”

She took the glasses and slipped them on. Thoroughly pleased with her look, she slipped her hands into the deep pockets of her trousers and twisted her head from side to side.

“Great,” Evan said in a stagy whisper, “while you’re falling in love with Carlos, they’re probably running out of beer and pizza up there. Are you about ready?”

“Evan?” She leaned in closer to the mirror and studied the edges of her mustache. “These don’t come off like the ones in the movies, right? I mean, we don’t actually have to rip them off, do we?”

“I hope not,” he said, walking into the bedroom.

Holly pulled her hands from her pockets and turned slowly toward him. “What? You are joking, aren’t you?”

Evan forced an innocent look onto his face. “Well, the last time I had a mustache, I’d actually grown it myself. That’s an interesting story. You see, my fraternity had this bet—”

Crushing his lapels in her fists, she pulled him close. “I don’t care about your fraternity. I care about my upper lip, and if I’ll have one in the morning.”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, looked at it for a second, then tossed it onto his bed. “Carlos, baby, trust me.”

“Hmmmm.” Without letting go of him, she looked over her shoulder toward the mirror. The disguise he’d concocted was incredible. “Maybe I should braid my hair and pin—Ev, what are you doing?”

He’d wrapped one arm around her waist, lifted her onto his hip and was carrying her out of the room. “Picking up my date.”

************

 

 

 

You can reach her at authorsusanconnell@gmail.com or visit her website www.susanconnellbooks.com

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AND…on a personal note, Pale Moon Rider is FREE at Amazon until the 19th of Sept. If you haven’t had a chance to read my Highwayman adventure, I hope you’ll give it a try.