Back from the Big Adventure
I came home from the Galapagos Islands (more on that later, I promise) in the evening, late last week. Mr. Old House Chic picked me up, gave me a big I-Missed-You-So-Much hug then announced that he needed to tell me something about the house. Yeah, I said a not out loud uh oh, as well…
Here’s the back story on our house: we bought an old farmhouse that you could consider The King of All Fixer Uppers. Every single room needs multiple and very complex things done in order to proclaim it as complete. In the end (not yet in sight), the fixing up will probably cost more than just demolishing the entire house and to start with a clean slate. But no, we wanted to renovate and rehabilitate the house and save all of the history that came with it. So here we are.
Mr. Old House Chic announced that, while I was gone, he demolished the bathroom. We only have one bathroom in our late 1800’s farmhouse. Just one. That means just one potty, just one shower, one bathtub, and just one bathroom sink. ONE. “But,” Mr. Old House Chic chirped happily, “We can use the kitchen sink as a bathroom sink and since we don’t have a shower anymore, we can use the bathtub. The toilet is still there, too.”
When Mr. Old House Chic announced that we no longer have a shower, I stupidly asked, “Where is the shower?” He answered jovially, “It’s in the driveway.” Of course it is.
We arrived home and I walked into the kitchen to see this…
I pointed towards the new hole and asked, “What…?”
Mr. Old House Chic proudly announced that we now have a new window in the bathroom- to see that much better into the kitchen. Luckily, he has a warped sense of humor and it was only temporary. The “window” will be filled in when the new shower arrives.
Here are more pictures of the demolition. Try not to Pin them to your Best Ever Bathrooms or Best Ever Photography Pinterest Board too fast.
So, we are in the middle of the bathroom renovation which adds an interesting twist to any relationship. Just now, while I’m typing this post, Mr. Old House Chic called from the attic to ask if I could bring him a box of screwdriver bits. He told me where it was and I retrieved it. I walked over to the rickety aluminum ladder that is precariously set up midway down the basement stairs, extended as far as it would go to reach the attic hole in the ceiling where Mr. Old House Chic was perched. The ladder was at such an acute angle that a disaster- cartwheeling arms and locked legs all tipping backwards to meet the concrete stairs below-is all but imminent.
I looked doubtfully at the ladder, the only such way (in my mind) to get the box of drill bits to him. Mr. Old House Chic assured me that I could just underhand throw the box to him from my location. That was his solution but it was better than climbing up the Ladder of Death.
I backed up a step to increase my angle of trajectory (yes, there is even a tactic to throwing a box of screwdriver bits from a ridiculous location -mine: on the stairs to an absurd location: his at the opening of the attic.) I wound up my throwing arm, put my legs into it with a deep squat and, before it released from my hand, knew this was not going to turn out well.
The box did not neatly sail up through the attic hole (I know you’re completely surprised about that news) that resembles a drunken square but instead bounced off the upper most rung of the ladder, with a loud clanging protest from the Ladder of Death, and ricocheted back down to crash to a rest on the attic stairs. We both stared at the still closed and locked box. Miraculously, it didn’t rain little bits to create a field of tool carnage. Thank you, DeWalt, for that one. By the way, DeWalt, did you create a locking bit box for especially stupid special occasions that involves underhanded throws that were all doomed before it was even thrown? I thought so.
“No, no, no. No, no, no, no. No. You need to throw it straight up at me not at an angle. Why are you backing up? Come back. You have to decrease the angle of the throw,” Mr. Old House Chic says. I’m laughing (the type of laugh of the truly insane locked permanently in a straight jacket) by now. We were apparently going to tempt fate and Murphy’s Law- which, by the way, has never, ever, in my entire personal history, ever worked in my favor. “Here stand right underneath me and throw it straight up.” Just so you, my dear readers, know, if the box somehow does not hit the intended target, it will be my face as its final resting place, thus the reason for the increase in the angle versus the decrease (translation: me backing away in a sort of retreat).
…and yet I threw it again, because I am nothing if not an insane and a complete overachiever. I screnched my eyes to better stare at my target with total concentration and determination, bent my legs in an even deeper squat and threw the perfect underhand. The bright yellow box sailed through the attic hole and into Mr. Old House Chic’s hand. Ha!
Whew. I’m exhausted… one battle successfully down and 5,234,198 more to go…and yes, I’m counting.
P.S.: No, I am not sponsored by DeWalt- my mention of DeWalt was out of intense gratitude for not having to find each and every screwdriver bit when the box split open and hailed fresh hell all over my Saturday.