Noble Intentions.

Jen and I joke that every year we make a list to do a certain number of specific things to make ready for the parade, and every year we wind up doing something completely unrelated to that list, and then scramble at the last minute to complete everything we originally intended to do. (Sometimes this is entirely my doing, but sometimes we are co-conspirators), This year, we decided to re-arrange the office around a new shelving unit, which meant moving a heavy three-drawer file cabinet and two bulky flat files to the other side of the office.

Preceding any completion of housework, I filled up the Scout Saturday morning with a final load of yard waste and construction debris and narrowly skirted self-immolation courtesy of a leaky gas tank (more on that here). Once that drama was over, we continued cleaning around the house until the girl awoke from her nap, and then it was time to run to the IKEA in White Marsh to purchase a shelving unit. Finn was content to bounce around in the backpack for one half of the trip, and then she rode in the cart through the Marketplace, flirting with the other customers and making friends while we browsed the as-is section and wrestled 150 lbs. of shelf onto a dolly.

Once home, we put her to bed and grilled some kabobs before doing battle with the allen wrench. We (well, I) failed to properly read the assembly directions for the shelves and made an hour’s worth of work into three. Sorry, Jen.

Sunday morning, after making some adjustments and leveling off the unit, we filled the shelves with three tons of printed material previously stored in various areas around the house, thus consolidating 90% of our design resources in one place.

I then cut a leftover piece of sanded birch plywood down and made a custom tabletop for the flat files with a beveled edge.

Sunday afternoon we were invited to a family crab feast (thanks, guys!), and Finn played happily on the floor while we got elbow-deep in Old Bay and Harpoon Summer Ale. I would share pictures here, but they came out all blurry.

Busy Hands.

There was a lot of activity this weekend at the Lockardugan compound; in between feedings and naps, we got the lawn mowed for the first time in two weeks, a garden plot dug in the backyard, more seedlings planted (and cucumber sprouts showing), doors on the garage and the Scout started (cough cough), attended a 1st birthday party, and found a secondhand backpack carrier for Finn. All that activity must have worn on me more than I expected, because I’ve been dragging ass ever since.

Beer and Light Wines.

We have a new dryer cooling its heels (or, warming our socks) in the basement as of 8:45 this morning, courtesy of Sears. The old Kenmore unit got hauled away, which means the last of our legacy appliances is now gone, and hopefully this one will last longer than the GE washer we bought at Sam’s Club when we first moved in.

The Year of Dying Appliances.

There are a few things to look out for when trying to identify the approximate age of an appliance. Unfortunate color palettes, faux woodgrain, ancient, outdated couplings, ungrounded, fabric-wrapped wiring, and cast iron are all usually pretty good indicators of impending failure and borrowed time. I’ve got another one to add to the list: anything that proudly trumpets “Solid State” across the front faceplate. Like our dryer, for example. “Solid state” usually means transistors; the new big thing back in, oh, 1970 or so. It makes me wonder if they actually used vacuum tubes in all the models previous to that era? We knew the dryer had one foot in the grave the minute we looked at the house; we knew that every day it continued to dry our socks and not explode into a lint-fueled inferno was another gift from the heavens. I guess it kind of makes sense, then, that only a month or so after our hot water heater blew up, the heating element in the dryer would finally give out. So I’ve got to do some quick research and score us a dryer in the next three days so we can get our clothes washed before hitting the road for Easter.

I hit some consignment stores a week ago or so and scored a bouncy seat for Finn, who should probably be practicing her balance a bit more.

Weekend Recap.

70° days are rare in Maryland this early in March, so this weekend we tried to balance spending as much time as possible with Finn and as much time as we could outside in the fresh air. Saturday was dedicated to long-overdue yardwork, which consumed a good portion of our afternoon, but, what a beautiful afternoon to do it!

I made the mistake of wearing work jeans, and after a half an hour raking leaves off the foundation, I had to switch to shorts because I was too hot. We had five inches of snow last Monday. I am surprised I did not blind the pilots of overflying passenger jets with the sunlight bouncing off my pale knobby knees.

Anyway, while Finn slept off her second breakfast, Jen and I filled twenty bags of leaves from the back of the house, the driveway bed, and the odd area under our back porch, which seems to attract all of the loose leaves in this zipcode like a great sucking vortex.

Once that was accomplished, we three got a bite to eat, changed our diaper, brought the swing outside, and commenced to cleaning out the sad, dilapidated tangle of weeds that was our garden while Finn supervised. I cannot describe to you the sense of satisfaction it gives me to look out on that bare patch of earth and know the neighbors aren’t cursing us under their breath anymore.

While raking up the leaves, I reflected on the sad harvest we reaped last year (mainly due to the toll taken by varmints), and decided that this would be the year I modify our greenhouse to grow vegetables properly. Doing some research, I found online suppliers who sell polycarbonate glazing and ventilation systems, which will be an up-front investment and take some engineering to install, but should turn our useless sealed hothouse into a productive greenhouse.

Meanwhile, I straightened up the pots and barrels and soil and made way for seedlings.

Then, I moved out to the garage and straightened up as much as I could around the Scout without actually diving into doing something on it. I did break down and disassemble some of my new parts–but I’ll go into that elsewhere.

Sunday we got the girl up early—or is that the other way around?—and made preparations to take a long walk around a lake in Columbia before doing our grocery shopping. After her first bottle of the day, this child, who almost never stops moving, did something she’s never done with me before—she leaned her head down onto my chest, under my chin, and quietly nestled up against me for three of the longest and best moments of my life.

Once we got out onto the trail, she was fine for the first fifteen minutes or so, but soon decided she wanted to be facing forward, which meant we wound up carrying her like a football for two and a half miles. Once out of the stroller, she was her usual observant self, appraising each new passerby with a taciturn stare, careful to warn away strange ladies who, no doubt, were plotting to rush over and pinch her chubby pink cheeks. Touch my face and I will projectile vomit all over your track suit, that glare said. And it worked.

Jen and I are afraid nobody will ever see the inside Finn, the girl we get to see who is giggles and smiles and gets so happy her entire body spasms repeatedly like she’s hooked up to a car battery. When she’s around us, she’s Miss Congeniality, and when she’s out in public, she’s Steve McQueen, staring down a hostile world with those steel-blue eyes and a .44 magnum. I will show you proof that she can smile:

After our return to the car, we hightailed it over to the grocery store, where Mama stayed with her in the parking lot while I hustled around and got our shopping done. A quick trip to the health-food store, and we headed home for a three-hour nap and some more yardwork: the front hedge got cleaned out, the greenhouse got a final sweep, and the toolbench in the garage got cleaned off.

About the time I was finishing up for the day, Finn woke up for dinner: avocado and pears. MMMMMMMMM, avocado. And then it was bathtime, and as soon as she was diapered and dressed, it was time for sleep. I’m exhausted just writing about it all.

No Hot Water.

Crap. Looks like our water heater has sprung an irreparable leak, which means there is an expensive repair in our future. On the good side, the shutoff valve, which is directly above the heater, has been corroded since we moved in, and whose handle snapped off in my hand when I tried to close it, will get replaced too.

Update 2.23.09: Water is back, and life may resume as normal. We got a new AO Smith 50 gallon unit installed with an expansion tank and a new shutoff valve, as well as a gas shutoff (which was never there). Expensive, yes. I did peep out tankless systems, but the entry models at the H-D topped $1K to start, and I’d guess the pro-grade models would be an extra $200 or so before installation.

The funny part of the story is that I got home from a 5-hour Scout adventure Saturday afternoon and decided I’d put some extra time in on the basement while I was still in work clothes. I hadn’t been downstairs more than ten minutes when I noticed the first trickle of water from the heater, which grew into a pool an hour later. If it had been midnight, or a day when Jen didn’t make it downstairs, the whole basement could have been awash and we wouldn’t have known until the dryer floated away.

One Good Thing…

…about the 1/2 of snow crippling the greater Baltimore area this morning is that it has confirmed a suspicion of mine about the lack of insulation in our porch ceiling. I originally put R-19 up there, thinking it would be plenty for the application, but as my lovely bride will tell you, it’s fucking freezing out there. The radiators do in fact heat the space up, but all warmth dissipates within about 20 minutes or so, making it useless for an all-season office (we’re currently using the dining room table).

This morning I peeked out the front bedroom windows and noticed the snow melting on the porch roof directly over the office area, which tells me I need at least another layer of R-19 over top of the existing insulation to keep that warmth in. Which means I’ve got to find a way to get up in there that doesn’t involve carving a hole in the drywall or using a shrink ray. Fortunately, I’ve got fresh freelance checks in my back pocket and there’s a sale on insulation at the H-D this week.

Operation: Pissing In The Wind, Part 1.

I spent all the free time I had this weekend kneeling in the ice room beneath the office building kneewalls for insulation. The idea is to add R-14 along the exposed sections of outside wall in an attempt to retain as much heat as possible, while keeping costs as low as possible.

Firstly, I had to seal up the lousy masonry with hydraulic cement, making sure everything is air and water-tight. Hydraulic cement is interesting stuff; it hardens in minutes, so it’s best to apply with nothing more than gloves. Imagine mixing small batches of oatmeal and then smearing it all over the wall before it turns to stone.

Once that was done, I started constructing the frames. For a grand total of around $60, I got two 12′ lengths of wall completed this afternoon, with two more left to do.

Additionally, because it seems to be the only window in the whole house with a correctly sized, in-stock premade replacement, I ripped the ancient, original hopper window out and installed a new one. I’ve been paranoid about this particular window since we moved in, because it’s semi-visible from the road and looked about as secure as a convertible with the top down. For $120, we got a vinyl dual-pane slider with a low U rating that fit almost perfectly. I find that these projects get easier and quicker as I do them; this one took about two hours minus a trip for pressure-treated lumber. Eventually, I’ll order three more for the rear and replace them as well.

After the basement section is done, I’m most likely going to have to crawl up into the attic above the porch ceiling and add another layer there as well. I’m really looking forward to that.

Creeping Toward The Finish Line

After two days of all-out work, I’ve got the porch very close to completion. The baseboards, toe molding, and finish molding are all in and painted. Network drops are wired and ready. Jen picked out a beautiful Pratt-Lambert light gray for the walls, which keeps the room light, neutral, and accents the bright white woodwork. The only things that remain are the drywall above the door to the bathroom, which needs to be primed and painted, and areas around the switchplates which need to be sanded, primed and painted.

There is a little touch-up to be done with the color here and there, but I’ll wait until the other stuff is ready to go.

Get That Off My Lawn

The other day, I was hanging the light fixture in the nursery, a room which affords a beautiful view of the street in front of our house. Up on a ladder, I was attempting to untangle a bunch of ancient fabric-covered wires without stripping too much of the insulation and torching our house, when a strange sound caught my attention, and I happened to glance down at the hedge that fronts our lawn. A water bottle had just landed at the base of the hedge, and the remainder of the water was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight as it sprayed from the top and fell back to earth. The fellow who had thrown the bottle continued walking up the street past the house, oblivious.

A few things flashed through my mind at that moment, the first few of which involved violence. I imagined picking up the bottle and throwing it directly at the back of his head. I had a clear image of the bottle in my fist as it connected with his solar plexus. I could see how snugly one of our garbage cans fit his body as I brought it down over his shoulders, our household refuse mingling with his hair and staining his work shirt.

Instead, my feet landed on the floor of the room and in the low bark I learned from my father, I yelled at him to pick the bottle back up at a volume that stopped him in his tracks. He motioned the inability to hear me, and I repeated myself clearly: PICK THAT BOTTLE UP OFF MY LAWN. He peered up at the house, waved weakly at it, then said, “I’m sorry, Mister,” and retrieved his bottle from the grass. I don’t suppose he could see me clearly, but the voice yelling at him from the house clearly spooked the shit out of him. If he’d seen his conscience in the flesh, he may not have been so conciliatory—I’d guess he outweighed me by a hundred or so pounds—but he was the soul of contrition to the Voice Of God.

In retrospect, I don’t know what made me angrier, the fact that he was littering, or the fact that it was my lawn. I personally can’t stand litter, and the idea of simply throwing something out the window or on the ground as I’m walking does not compute. I suppose it’s fitting, then, that I own a house on a minor thoroughfare where litter tends to be swept up by the wind and into our bushes so that I can clean it up. I’m not the tidiest of homeowners. I don’t have thousands to spend on weekly landscaping, and my bushes aren’t perfectly manicured. But that doesn’t mean it’s OK to finish half a bottle of water and toss it into my yard. What is it with people?

From the Vine.

When it starts smelling like Bubblicious on our back lawn, we know it’s time to harvest grapes. This year’s initial pick was about 6 lbs., which Jen quickly made into jelly and canned.

New Molding.

Let There Be Light.

Could I be happier? No, I don’t think I could be.

Windows, Day One

This is what happens when you hire professionals to work on your house: shit gets done right. We are HAPPY.

Potty Humor.

One of the little things that’s been annoying me since we moved into this house is the general suckitude of the upstairs toilet. The whole bathroom is shite, really; the walls are uneven, the bathtub is old, the linoleum-over-tile floor is disgusting, and the sink is one of those separate-faucet deals where hot and cold come out of different spigots. Want to wash your hands with warm water? Sorry. Your choices are SCALDING or FREEZING. But the toilet has been the main offender lately. Dating back to the Korean War, it was a 5-gallon model that saw the harsher side of eight children before we ever got here. Tiny hairline cracks in the bowl refused to come clean. Stains in the porcelain (not ours) defied scrubbing and chemicals. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it had a noticable instability from side to side—not the most confidence-inspiring feeling when taking care of business. Possibly the most annoying thing, though, is the fact that it didn’t flush. There is nothing more embarrassing than having to stand in there with the door closed, flushing the thing four times to make sure the package has been delivered.

This past weekend I decided to use some of my hard-earned homeowner skills and replace the balky old beast with a pretty new low-consumption unit from Lowe’s. I did a bunch of research (in a strange bit of serendipity, the latest issue of This Old House mentioned a Canadian-sponsored study on toilets, which I found online; there was so much exhaustive data there I pretty much gave up. Apparently Canucks have nothing better to do than chart toilet flushing power in inscrutable Excel spreadsheets and debate the merits of sponges vs. soy paste for test material) and settled on the American Standard Cadet 3, which will, apparently, flush a bucket of golf balls with 1.6 gallons of water. Sold!

Last night, I gathered up some buckets, plumber’s wrenches, rags, and newspaper, and had the old toilet drained and off the floor in a half an hour. Cleaning off the flange and surrounding floor, I saw no glaring problems, and prepared the new toilet base for its maiden voyage. Settling it onto the flange, it bolted right up, and I was about to fetch the tank, when I tested it for stability. It rocked back and forth as badly as the old unit did. Bolting it as tight as I dared without breaking the porcelain, I couldn’t keep it from rocking sideways—a bad omen. Wood shims on either side didn’t correct the issue, which defied logic, and my stomach began to clench up as I realized what the issue was: I leaned the bowl all the way to the left and lifted it off the floor. Underneath, bolted snugly to the base of the toilet, was the brass flange, now unconnected to the lead pipe leading into the cement floor.

In a morning phone conversation with a trusted plumber, I was told the old-school way was to connect a lead junction up to the top of the iron pipe, and then a brass flange was fitted over the lead. The sides of the lead were hammered down over the brass to “connect” it, and the job was finished. Gotta love the old school, right?

So, until we can get a plumber out here to rectify the situation, my seven months’ pregnant wife has to use the basement toilet, which is the aesthetic equivalent of making her pee in a prison cellblock. I’ve just cleaned up the toilet out on the porch and set it up for us to use in the meantime, but that solution is also substandard at best.

In the meantime, say a prayer to the porcelain god for us: Our Dear Lord John, please show mercy on us. Let the plumber fix our problem without having to tear up half the floor in our bathroom; five projects in this house is enough.

I briefly considered posting some pictures, but you really don’t want to be looking at my toilet drain. Trust me.

Update 11:49AM: Plumber #2 is on the case.

Update 1:28AM: We have a working, functional, shiny new toilet. And the old gas line in the doctor’s exam room is capped off and gone! LET THE POOPING COMMENCE.

A Strange Visit.

Working in the backyard on Sunday morning, Jen came to me and asked if I’d seen the instrument case hidden behind the neighbor’s garage that abuts our yard. I went to investigate and found a full-size cello case laying on its side in a pile of brush behind our mulch piles, not a place I’d prefer to see a stringed wooden instrument stored. Fearing someone had stashed it there for nefarious reasons, I placed it upright and we left it there for the day to see if someone came to claim it.

At dusk, I went back out and swapped it for a small note taped to the wall of the garage: “We didn’t want your friend getting wet. Ring the bell at the blue house.” (It was threatening to rain last night). Inside the case is a full-size student cello, made last year, in great shape save a cracked neck arch.

Something about this is very wrong; the house behind us is occupied by a single woman with no children. The garage itself is locked, but there’s a canvas awning to the side where the cello could have been stored out of the weather and eyesight. And why not the back porch of the house? If a child was locked out of the house, only to come back later, why not just leave it up there? This smells fishy to me, like someone stole it and stashed it.

So what should I do if someone actually does come to claim it? My respect for stringed instruments (I played upright bass for eight years) says I shouldn’t on easy on the punk who left it outside; it’s going to depend on who rings the bell, I suppose. If it’s a concerned parent, it’s a no-brainer. If it’s a nervous kid, do I call their folks? If it’s a tweaker, I ask them to describe it and see how they do, but what then? Ideas?

Hardwood.

This is what an hour’s work with a crowbar and a David Sedaris CD will result in; much of the floor here is in great shape, which makes me wonder why the ever covered it in the first place.

File Under: No Thank You.

Damn. I just got a quote from Renewal by Andersen which included custom-built new windows, installation, and warranty. The cost of one of their windows was more than all six of the off-the-shelf windows I was originally considering, and three times the amount of the windows we picked out on Tuesday. The entire bill was enough to make me dizzy.

This is How We Renovate…In the Ghetto.

My original intent, when I began the front porch renovation, was to keep the costs low by using off-the-shelf materials to replace the crap I was tearing out. I’d looked at stuff at the local superstores and found inexpensive candidates, but I knew I’d have to special-order certain things (windows) because nothing in this house is standard size.

With that in mind, I’ve been hemming and hawing over the replacement windows for weeks now, unsure of my plans. The window openings on the porch were all framed in by drunks, so their heights all vary by as much as an inch, and the horizontal level is off by at least a half-inch. In order to figure out what I was going to do (and what shape the framing was in), I pulled all three of the front-facing jalousie windows out on Monday to see what I was dealing with. The base of the frame on the far right was in terrible shape, and I had to pull the entire thing out in order to see what I was dealing with. For a temporary fix, I cut sheets of plywood down and nailed them up until we got our new windows delivered.

Aaaaaaand, here’s where things go south.

Returning to Lowe’s Tuesday with my 10% off coupon, Jen and I looked at the off-the-shelf offerings, and she helped me realize how shitty they look. The mullions (crossbars on the top window) were inside the glass, which looks funny from the outside, and the entire window is covered with a screen, which is ugly. After some discussion, we got a quote for better quality replacement windows which turned out to be about three times as much as I was originally expecting—not what I was hoping for. With the coupon and a firm quote I figure it will go down to about twice my original budget, but this is still putting a major dent in our plans. I’ve got a couple calls in to the better window companies to see what decent replacement windows will cost; I’m not expecting miracles but I’m hoping for one. The hard part will be getting a quote for the windows minus installation fees; I’m pretty sure that’s where their markup lives.

Meanwhile, eating our breakfast in the upstairs bedroom has gotten more exciting due to the looks of shock and awe of the passers-by as they crane their necks trying to figure out what happened to the front of the house.

Outside, we wrapped a couple of branches of the cherry trees so that we might be able to enjoy some of the fruit this spring. With the exception of the Year of the Locust (when plentiful, if earthy-flavored food was burrowing out of the ground all summer), the birds have cleaned out all of the ripening red cherries before we’ve been able to taste it. The grape arbor also got wrapped on Monday to keep the bunches protected for the season (and to keep the vines off the stairwell).

* * *

In other strange news, I had a dream last night where I was asked by Daft Punk to sit in on one of their concerts. I knew all the parts to the songs, but the “instrument” they stood me in front of was like no other I had ever seen, and made no sense. They got pissed at me when I couldn’t figure out how to play it (it was like a vibraphone stood on its side, with lots of added glowing sampler buttons that made no sense), yelled at me in French, and kicked me off the stage. I was so psyched to put on a helmet and a jumpsuit and rock out, too.

A Little Subterfuge.

I was all ready to drive out to the gucci Lowe’s in Columbia last night to write a big fat check for nine replacement windows. I had my clipboard, I had my measuring tape, I had my wife with me and we were going to make a side trip to try out the Parsa Kabob near the store. MMMM, yummy lamb kabobs. It was at the front door, ready to leave, that I remembered something: I wanted to see if there were any coupons or discounts I might find online that could save us a few bucks.

When we first moved into the Estate here, I got a packet in the mail from Lowe’s for 10% off purchases of $5,000 or more as a “welcome to the neighborhood” sort of thing. They obviously check county records each week to see who’s recently purchased land and then send out a blanket mailing. After moving in, I let the coupon lapse because there wasn’t anything I needed to buy that would make a 10% discount worthwhile—the house needed elbow grease more than it needed raw materials.

After a quick search online I found the moving section of their website and plugged in my spamcatcher email address; the page says 3-7 days to fulfill via postal mail or email, which is plenty of time for me to continue insulating, running wire, and cleaning the space. 10% off a thousand bucks’ worth of windows is nothing to sneeze at, in my book.

Update: Yeah, bitches!