Life is a Banquet

I, Wavybrains

As the goddess which we all agree I am, I should not have to strain my back cleaning *certain* people’s long hair out of tub drains, weaken my knees bending for stray socks, hyperextend my shoulders vacuuming, and I most certainly should never have to foul my oxygen with the scent of over-ripe cat box. Unfortunately, despite the fact that I am ever so much more intelligent than that Bewitched chick, and would never wear sheer harem pants like that Jeanie broad, mother nature neglected to give me the talent to point at something and say “cleanius maximus immedius” or something like that.

 

$25,000 for a Toilet

I’m feeling a bit sympathetic towards the Pentagon today. You see, I never really understood those $25,000 toilets and other gross pork-excesses padding the defense budget, but now, I understand perfectly how one toilet can cost $25,000. Freak and I want a second bathroom, ideally attached to our new, oh-so-lovely master bedroom in the basement. Our house is a 2 bedroom, 1 bath home with about 1200-1500 square feet on the main level and an equal sized finished basement. Oh and an attic, ideal for further expansion. But, I digress. Since Mr. 37 joined the Scientist, I, and Freak, that makes four adults with one bathroom.  

So, we’ve been batting around bathroom plans, and lovingly stroked the porcelain at Home Despot while chirping naively about tile showers and glass block accents, and marveling at bargains! to be had in cabinetry. We, again being laughably naïve, figured we could do the whole shebang for about $5000, doing most of the work ourselves. Oh, we were wrong. Oh, how very wrong. 

First of all, cement is HARD. And impermeable. Which makes it an ideal basement floor. And exactly what you DON’T want to be slicing up and drilling through to lay a bathroom. Add several thousand just for all the cement work required. Next, remember what a bathroom is used for. All that water? All that grossness? It has to go somewhere. Because our house has one bathroom, it has one toilet stack. The basement toilet MUST connect to this stack. Now, we COULD use our preferred location, and add several grand for all the ceiling work that will be required + a pump to move the waste water from that location to the stack. OR, we could use the current laundry room area, save money, but add the trouble of framing out a new room. Either way, add a few thousand.  

And then, there are all those pipes, which hang from the ceiling, giving a nice “industrial edge” that just loudly proclaims basement. They will need to be re-routed. And that cement you just tore up? Well the flooring will have to be re-poured and leveled for that area. The absolute minimum this little project might cost? Any guesses? $10,000 from a well-known, low-balling contractor, with us doing pretty much everything past the pluming, flooring, and electrical. More likely: $15,000 with us doing the drywall, painting, trim work, installing the fixtures, and so on. Most realistically: $20,000-$25,000 with them doing most of the work. 

So, um, guess who WON’T be getting a bathroom for Christmas this year? I think I want to be a plumber and/or a contractor when I grow up. There’s lots of money to be made in selling $25,000 toilets. 

It's a Boy!

" Wavybrains and Freak proudly announce the newest addition to our household:  Roommate #2, hence force known as Zen.  Zen has returned from a nine month sojourn in China and will be joining Scientist in project pay-off Wavybrains' and Freak's mortgage.  Non-grandparents are not impressed."   

This explains my lack of posting in the last few days, as I've been cleaning like a mad banshee.  With each new addition to the household, I like to start on a positive, CLEAN note, as if we always live orderly lives and dishes always go in the sink.  I like to think that this encourages good behavior, not to mention makes the place more welcoming. 

Of course, Zen is returning with no furniture, and a bed would have probably been a tad more welcoming than clean carpet, but what can I say?  I had the nesting instinct.  I cleaned and fluffed, buffed and waxed, and that's just the living room.  Freak even got in on the act, using the weed-eater which last saw action sometime around the 4th . . . of July.   

We're excited because this moves us closer to the communal household of our dreams.  Of course, in MY dreams, there is MORE THAN ONE BATHROOM.  Clanna can't understand how I could even consider living with four adults and one bathroom.   Perhaps it has something to do with having grown up with FIVE people and one bathroom.   Or having been to countless conventions, dorms, and conferences where I've had to wait on a bathroom. 

We do plan to add a second bathroom, because while I CAN wait, I'm just a bit crabby doing so.  But, in his six months with us, Zen will tackling numerous remodeling projects.  Just as soon as we find the poor guy a bed.

Gone Fishin'

We're on vacation.  Okay, TECHNICALLY we have a REAL vacation to Reno coming up, but that's actually a WORKING trip for me (writing conference!! More Stress!! Oh boy!!).  But, we NEED a break.  Being slightly cash poor these days, Clanna helped me come up with a fabulous idea. We're on vacation here.  At home. Need us? Cell phones are out of service, sorry.  E-mail? Not checking at the moment.  Hammock? Occupied by the cutest husband around and a book of bathroom ideas? Breakfast? Cinnamon Pancakes.  Clean up? Not happening.  Moving furniture into the basement? Not today.  Naps taken already today? Two.  Freak is right now enjoying the "spa" with a long, hot shower and BATH.  Yes, my manly man takes bubble baths, and I believe that's what he's up to right now.  Massages are planned for later this afternoon. 

What's truly cool though is realizing that we have the perfect home for vacationing at home.  We have a hammock. We have diet sodas in the fridge and pitchers for iced tea. Enough dirty dishes fit in the dishwasher to accommodate a weekend of laziness.  We have enough curtains now to spend the day in our underwear.  What more is needed really?  Oh and we have BOOKS.  Stacks and stacks of books.   I'm only on the computer briefly here because the need to write was overwhelming, but suddenly, the reminder that I have BOOKS waiting has me itching to return to my vacation.

The To-Do list and the To-Worry list are offically missing in action for the next two days! Tell me how YOU vacation and unwind at home, dear readers, I want to do this more often. 

Driving Distraction

Freak has discovered that I am a small child, soothed by long drives in the car.  As the miles add up, and the flatness of Salem gives way to curves and views that remind us why we are here, my anxiety level plummets replaced by the sort of dreams that only happen in the passenger seat. 

Our drives together, and the long meandering conversations that resulted from them, dried up with the rain under the pounding spring sun urging us to "get things done."  And done we have, with our gorgeous garden and welcoming patio (and the weeds now only tease our ankles instead of taunting the neighbors as they reach for the sky), and the soon-to-be-done major basement remodel, and the vast unpacking of stuff from Freak's St. Louis house. 

And parts of us have been "done" too, dried up under the beating heat of stress and work, our tiredness has defined many an evening as we have napped together, and considered movie watching a major victory in stress-management.  But the urge to hit the road is never far from Freak's agenda, and as his personal stress has abated, he has gradually reclaimed the road as his personal relaxation zone. 

The aimless driving without deadline, without goals or objectives, is exactly what I need right now.  I need the wide open spaces on both sides of me, urging to consider the bounty of the future instead of wallowing in my own pit of uncertainty.  It is the uncertainty which has made me slightly crazed lately, both needy and despondent and an over-eager steam roller as I become increasingly desperate in my search for a purpose which would lend definition to the murky future. 

Tonight, we drove to Albany for the simple reason that we had never really driven around Albany as anything other than a gateway to points west.  We started out, not for Albany, but for the health food store, for a little Dagoba nectar of the gods to sustain us.  Then, the car took us on a tour of neighborhoods far out of our lifestyle as we imagined the lives we would lead to live in such sterile places, and from there Albany seemed like a natural progression of sorts.  We ate amongst the locals at a Mongolian Grill dive populated by skinny teenagers and roughened truckers and a few extended families toting tired children.

And now, I am more at peace than I have been in a long time, more able to absorb the lessons of the last few weeks of being a DIY guru that things do not have to be absolutely perfect to be absolutely wonderful and that the only person I really need to please is myself (which is much easier to do if I bring my standards back down to earth).  And for all my stress lately, I see the change which has been happening lately, in spite of all my whining-- as I step ever closer to the person I want to be, and creep closer towards allowing myself to enjoy having that life.  My life is an open road that I can't wait to explore.

Readying The Nursery

That's right . . .in addition to parenting a teenager (see last post), I've also become the proud parent of  . . . several dozen . . . ACTION FIGURES.   They are all boys (at least I think, from their gender neutral plastic bits it's kind of hard to tell) and are all quite healthy, encased in their little plastic shrouds. 

Apparently, I unwittingly adopted all of these creatures when I married Freak.  As luck would have it, our courtship was between Star Wars movies and all of his little action figure children were back in St. Louis, safely out of sight in large blue plastic tubs.  So, I did not have to face the reality of sharing my home with so many little men.   

Now however, fate has converged to make me the custodian of all these little pieces of uselessness.  While in St. Louis, Freak sold the house he owned there,  and boxed up the rest of his crap  belongings,  and after a long truck ride (Thanks U-Pack!),  my garage is now overflowing with boxes o'stuff. 

Stuff including two very large, VERY HEAVY, video games,  papers from every phase of Freak's life, question items of decor (A Star Wars throw?  The star ship enterprise as art? Assorted items of ex-girlfriend memorabilia? Merge has absolutely nothing on us).

The most pressing item on Freak's agenda is not organizing his stuff--nope it's acquiring more plastic Star Wars figures.  Apparently, all the little plastic men have been VERY lonely in St. Louis.  The companionship of their dozens of brothers is not sufficient.  Besides the DETAIL of the new figures! The new outfits! The limited editions!  I mean how could you NOT want to adopt this and give it a good home? 

Eight more little men have come to live with us--just since the weekend.  I'm not sure I'm prepared to deal with multiples like this.  How exactly does one care and feed for so many little men, all in need of love and attention?
So my question to you, dear Internet, is really quite simple. 

What sort of nursery would be appropriate for all my new children?  Their current blue plastic "room" is quite crowded.  I was thinking of some sort of bunk-bed shelving system that would allow their proud papa to admire them daily, but they are sensitive little buggers and must be protected from excessive heat and light.  They also need to be isolated from their animal siblings, who love a good plastic chew.  I want to be a GOOD mother to all my little plastic sons. Would a dark corner of the basement be inappropriate? There's a nice closet under the stairs - - -perhaps they could play Harry Potter . . . .

Piles of Stuff

My little will writing exercise has me thinking differently about the nature of possessions.  Stuff is inherently transitory in my world to begin with, but this puts a different sort of spin on my thinking. 

Clothes get stained, books loose their relevance, appliances break, decorating tastes change, and things get eaten.  I'm not a Vanderbilt and that is actually a very good thing.  I don't really have the mentality for heirlooms.  I USE tables, chairs, and couches, slipcovers, and books. 

I identify with what Scott over at Home Sweet Road said about how you get something new, and you are convinced that this time WILL BE DIFFERENT.  This time you'll be neat, and organized, and you'll keep it looking new . . . .

But "this time" is NEVER different.  I'm coming to accept some basic truths about myself.  One of which is that I care more about living in the moment than I do about protecting my stuff.  I give lip service to wanting a clean sofa, and pristine bed, but I still eat on both.  And I love clothes, but I also love rolling in the grass, playing with the puppy, eating drippy foods, tossing things in the dryer,  wiping my hands while cooking and a hundred other little actions that demonstrate my lack of regard for my clothing. 

I do not think about my progeny when I use a hot glue gun at the dining room table.  I do not give a wit about my heirs when I use a "good" cereal bowl to feed the dog.  What is here, is here for me. 

I resist any urges to "collect."  I have a deep aversion to knickknacks.  To me collections = clutter, and I'm a strong believer in getting rid of that which I do not find useful or beautiful or both.  Collections, no matter how nicely displayed are clutter, and should be limited. 

And when we're gone, what will it matter anyway?  This stuff--the pieces of life that we accumulate?  Will our collections, our purchases, our stuff be anything other than a burden on those we leave behind?  I actually found myself pitying my "heirs," reluctant to saddle them with my detritus, because I know that that which is important to me, probably isn't important to anyone else. 

I've tried renouncing materialism,  attempting to live a monastic life, but that simply isn't me.  I'm bargains and color, and shoes, and pots and pans, and picture frames.  I'm skirts and dresses and beauty products.  And I'm not sure I want to do any of it different--other than continue to be mindful of what I bring in, what is needed, what is needed, and what is destined to become clutter. 

In a way, asking whether something is something which I would leave to others is another way of saying, should I do this just to please myself or with a mind to others?  And the answer so often, is that I should do something just to please myself.  No one else cares what kind of book light I have.  My sheets and bedding are unlikely to be coveted by others. 

But that which I *would* like to leave behind, IS worth preserving, is worth working on--my scrapbooks, my writings, my paintings.  Certain pieces of furniture that I want to symbolize "Family" are worth the investment. That which would mean so much to me, that I would use it constantly, that it would come to be a treasured possession (oh say, a Kitchen Aid mixer) IS worth getting, worth the investment. 

In the end, my life is for me to live, and if my "stuff" lacks meaning for me, it is unlikely to HAVE meaning for anyone else.

What Feels Like Home

Sometimes, you have no idea how much something means until you have been without it so long.  Nearly two years ago, I went from having an apartment filled with nice furniture to having nothing, as the result of an ugly divorce (things are more civil these days, but very ugly then).  I decided that my furniture was simply not worth the mental energy required to fight for it.  But, in the ensuing two years, as I have gradually moved from owning an inflatable mattress and a dish upon my first night in Salem, to acquiring computer desks, washer & dryer, refrigerator, chairs, a breakfast nook, a real bed, bookcases, storage, cooking supplies, and all manner of other odds and ends (including of course A HOUSE and FOUR beasts), I have thought often of what I was forced to leave behind.

Home on the Road

When you own a home and possess some modicum of creativity, life is full of unending opportunities to spend money.  In my four years as a renter, and before that my years in the dorm, changing paint color, removing walls, and god forbid, installing anything was not an option.  Which pretty much meant that I could go a year without entering a Lowes or Home Despot and be fine. 

But, Freak and I pretty much spend most weekends and far too many evenings, getting things we need.  Power tools, a hundred different kinds of screws and nails, glues, cleaners, and the ever-spiraling requirements that stem from a single thought.  When we bought the house almost nine months ago, we had a fleeting notion of scraping some peeling paint of a few of the doors.  Two heat guns, a half-dozen scrapers, a can of citri-strip, some sandpaper, sanding sponges,  and some ambitiously selected paint, the peeling paint remains. 

However, the initial round of stripping lead to the need for : a shop broom, trash can, and large dust pan.  Then organization in the workshop became an issue.  A peg board, a bunch of hooks (it feels like we must have made one trip per hook), some shelves, a more powerful drill to install the shelves, a saw to cut the shelves, several level thingies, and a miter box.  Then while installing shelves, knocking down part of a wall seemed easy enough.  However after the bashing and crashing, we needed a reciprocating saw to clean it all up.  And paint.  And trim, because you know, you can't leave the edges exposed.

We also own several tools for the basement remodel-in-progress upon which no progress has been made aside from laying out our over ambitious plans.  We own carpet shears and carpet pullers.  We have light fixtures in boxes, and the electrical doo-dads needed to keep oneself from electrocuting oneself to death when playing with wires. 

So, yeah, they pretty much know us by name at the three hardware stores in town.  Nights that aren't spent wandering the aisles at Lowes and Home Despot being seduced by words like volts and versatile (we're a sucker for words that start with "v") are spent at Pet Smart attempting to make up all the time we spend on house projects to our animals.  It's a toss up whether the animals or the house is a bigger money pit. 

Relaxation is a foreign word around here.  We talk about how much we need it, but achieving it always seems a bit out of reach. 

So, when I discovered this site last night, I thought to myself: "Hey, we could totally do that."  Cause, we spend 365 days in the car anyway, but imagine how awesome it would be to not have an agenda or a to-do list? Yeah, I could totally do that.

Living Room of My Soul

Life Coach Martha Beck writes in the latest O at Home magazine: “The indifferent hodgepodge of my home stemmed from neglect of my soul, and my ill-nourished soul, in turn, was perpetuating an uninspired environment.” It strikes me that this is a vastly under-utilized tool to understanding the concept of home. Why are we drawn to some homes and not others? Why do we so enjoy peeks into people’s private spaces? What do our homes say about us?

Beck believes that our living space is a self-portrait. “The portrait that emerges is all the more accurate for having been created unconsciously.” Likewise, decorating can be a tool to self-growth. “Pondering the symbolism of your living space allows you to make transformations toward beauty and fulfillment in both your home and your life.”

So how would I describe my home?

Burning Up

Apparently, in a past life I grew up an outcast in an Eskimo village suspiscious of new technologies.  I’m now being punished for whatever past transgressions I committed (a dislike of whale blubber perhaps?”).  I spent my childhood winter’s cold. I don’t just mean I disliked the winter. I mean cold, as in the arctic winds decending on southwestern missouri during ice storms whipping through the house, cold. I mean pioneer cold.

I grew up in a house without a furnace. I’m not sure many other 25 year olds can say that. I grew up warming my clothes on a gas stove each winter morning before school, teeth chattering, and feet dancing to avoid touching the cold lineloeum. I grew up sleeping with 2 sleeping bags, a variety of blankets, and one large sheltie for warmth.  Because my room was the coldest in a house of freezing rooms, I warranted an ancient space heater/radiator contraption. Unfortunately, there were no plugs in my room, so the cord to said heater had to be run through my brother’s room, down a hole in the floor, and plugged in the one outlet in the house that accepted 3 prong holes.

Too many nights with cold noses gave me a fetish for central heating. I luxuriated in wearing pj’s and walking around barefoot in my dormrooms. I sauntered through my apartments wearing as little as possible, flaunting my wealth of warm air, oblivious to cold fronts. I thought my days of space heaters and multiple layers of clothing were long past. Then I started living in houses again.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Freak and I have been discussing respect all evening. Its interesting how differently we grew up. Freak had to earn respect, from his grandparents, from his brothers, from his superiors in the military. My family didn’t really operate like that, and neither have any of my relationships. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that respect has played a very limited, if any, role in my life up until recently.